


The Long Walk Home

by The_Librarian



Series: Life After Equivalence [2]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure, Brotherhood, Dimensional Travel, Friendship, Gen, Homecoming, Journey's End, Post-Canon, Rebuilding, Romance, Serious Injuries, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-08 05:39:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 49,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3197411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Librarian/pseuds/The_Librarian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having saved the world(s) again, Ed, Al and their allies are catapulted from 1920s France back in to Amestris. After countless trials and tribulations, the Elric Brothers are finally on their way home. But nobody ever said the last leg of the journey would be easy . . .</p><p>A sequel to the The Conqueror of Shamballa and my fic, 'The Death of Truth'. Spoilers for the series as a whole. Anime universe. Ed, thus language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shadow Archaeology

**Author's Note:**

> Right, sorry for the belated notes - as I was pushed for time this morning, I opted to publish without them.
> 
> This is the second in my Fullmetal Alchemist series, set post CoS. New readers should begin here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2353769/chapters/5193425
> 
> Like The Death of Truth, I originally posted this fic on FF.net a few ears ago. The version I'm posting here is an edited and slightly expanded version with an entirely new prologue to play into some of the newer ideas I have about the direction for the series. In many respects this is the start of what I'd actually want to do with a continuation of the 2003 anime, with The Death of Truth being the universe-bending crisis necessary to bring it about. As such there are original characters in it, but I've tried to include them only where they'd make sense for a continuation - e.g. as new supporting cast members from new settings or as new antagonists. Hopefully that'll all work out sensibly in the long run.
> 
> Updates will be punctual on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays since I have all of this ready to go. Comments and critique are welcome as ever and a preemptive thank you to everyone who stops by and reads the fic. Enjoy!

The dead city was dying again.

Streets that had endured four hundred years sealed away were crumbling, explosions, earthquakes and alchemy-enhanced battles taking their toll at last. Roofs slumped, sending waterfalls of tiles cascading noisily into newly unsettled earth. The waterways split their banks, drowning the houses they once served. Dust choked the cavern, smothering sound and swarming in the shafts of the light that edged down through jagged breaks in the roof. The smell of decay hung heavy in the air.

Shadows slipped along the broken roads, alive in the midsts of the death throes. They skirted walls and doorways, swift and attentive to their surroundings. Occasionally, one would pause and pick something from a rotting shelf or from between cracked stonework. Their hands flickered in soundless conversation, messages flashing between them as they searched.

A few of them gathered in the scant remains of the grand opera house. The ruins were subsiding yet further, creating a bleak pattern of hollows and chasms for them to climb through. They passed broken sections of alchemic arrays and paid them little heed, rooting around instead under upturned flagstones and fallen pillars.

One paused on the brink of a particularly large hole, scrutinising the darkness below through the eyes in his mask. He knelt, peering closer, trying to calculate a safe path down. There were spaces among the foundations, hidden rooms long since dormant and abandoned. They had filled with water though and it was hard to judge how deep it was in the darkness.

He was about to move on when a shape, pale against the black surface, drifted into view. Eyes narrowed, it took a few seconds for him to determine what it was.

The frantic hand signals that followed brought half a dozen of his compatriots to his side. At his direction, they unwound lengths of rope and produced spiked hooks, affixing their lines to nearby anchor points. In minutes, he was able to descend securely, until he was close enough to see that he had been correct.

The body of a young man lay on his back, floating among an unpleasant mix of fragments and debris, sodden bandages slowly unwrapping from his thin limbs. In the gloom, his skin was the colour of pale ash, marred by sequences of livid burns. His hair, little more than fuzz, was turned a wet grey by the water and the dirt. His eyes were closed, his mouth a little open. At first, quite naturally, the shadow assumed he was quite dead and cold.

Yet as he watched, he perceived the shallow rise and fall of the boy's chest, the faint susseration of his breath. As implausible as it seemed, this was no corpse after all.

Another flurry of signals to those waiting above and a second man abseiled down to join the first, their joint efforts sufficient to raise their unexpected prize from the water and hold him steady while the other shadows hauled all three out. They laid the boy down, movements economical rather than gentle. Surrounding him, they examined his features, silent debate raging between them. At length, the eldest shadow cut across the argument with finality, directing subordinates to make haste and carry a question to their master. This would not be for them to decide.

As fleet as snatched music, the messengers departed, leaving the rest of return to their allotted task and the eldest to stand guard on the boy, hand hovering near the knives at his belt. He made no judgement, content to wait for word from a higher authority, and studied the emaciated form with only detached interest. The aspect was familiar, albeit distantly so, recognition lurking in an image half seen and little remembered. All that was truly obvious was the alieness of such a creature to such a place. A skeleton would be expected, not a body with skin still on its bones, much less one that still breathed the foul air.

There was a disturbance behind him, the whisper of motion on the back of his neck. He turned and immediately prostrated himself, low enough for his mask to kiss the ground. A hand brushed lightly on his shoulder, bidding him to rise. He did so and watched his master lean over the boy, lean close to sniff at the drawn face and trace the curve of the neck, the swirl of the burns along the arms.

Almost immediately, the master was on his feet again, hands decisive and firm.

They would be taking the boy with them just as soon as they had everything else they had come for.


	2. Lost Boys and Gardeners

Ed woke up and instantly regretted it. Almost everything hurt and everything else was in that special place that was so far beyond pain that his brain had disconnected it as a matter of survival. And he couldn’t move.

That terrified him until he opened his eyes and realised that he had been wrapped in enough blankets to insulate the whole of Munich.

A face appeared in front of him, attached to a white shirt. “You’re awake!” it told him.

He squinted at it. It had blonde hair and blue eyes. It stood up and reached over to adjust one of the covers. It was wearing braces. That seemed familiar. “Know you,” he muttered, lips feeling like lead balloons, “Know you . . . Trig something. No, s’not right. Tring. Tringham. You’re Tringham. Rub . . . Rus. Russell. Russell Tringham.”

The face grinned. “No, wrong one. I’m Fletcher.”

Ed blinked. He squinted again. He concluded that he was in Hell. Fletcher Tringham was taller than him.

No, wait. He wasn’t. He was taller than Ed had been the last time they had met but Ed had grown as well – at frickin’ last! – so that would still make him the shorter. He did look more like his brother now, though. How old would he be? How old had be been back then . . . ? Ed couldn’t remember. Russell had been fourteen . . . or was it fifteen? He’d been tall for his age, the bastard. _That_ was clear in Ed’s memory. And smug. And he’d had a stupid haircut.

Ed tried to get a grip before his mind spiralled its way out of his ear.

“Wh-wherrr . . .” He broke into a fit of coughing, his throat burning. Fletcher shot off to one side and came back bearing a glass of water. He carefully manoeuvred it until Ed could sip and between them they stopped him from hacking up his lungs.

“Better?” Fletcher asked, taking the glass away and smoothing the covers.

Ed nodded and tried to speak again. “Where . . . where am I?”

The words came haltingly and painfully but they did come. Fletcher nodded, having clearly expected the question. “Our cabin in Brina. We found you out in the forest. You were . . . well . . .” He trailed off, fidgeting nervously. “Your arm and leg . . . the auto-mail . . . it looked like it had been ripped off. And you were unconscious . . .” He stopped again. “You were . . . you were hardly breathing for a while. We thought that you might have been attacked but there were no other tracks and –”

“And what are we meant to think about finding someone who’s supposed to be dead?” Russell stood in the doorway, clutching the frame with his right hand. There were dark rings around his eyes and hollows in his cheeks. His hair hung limply across his forehead. He looked exhausted and about ready to collapse.

“ _Ruuusssell_!” Fletcher snapped, rounding on his sibling, “You should be in bed!”

“I can’t sleep. Anyway, I heard you talking.” The elder Tringham lurched into the room and staggered to a chair, dropping into it with all the grace of a sack of potatoes.

Ed scowled confusedly at him. “Wh . . . what’s wrong with you?”

“Alchemy plague,” Russell replied curtly, wincing and rubbing his temples, “And having to drag your sorry carcase a mile or two through the snow. You’ve put on weight while you’ve been dead.”

“ _Alchemy_ _plague_?” Ed croaked confusedly.

“It happened about a month ago,” Fletcher answered, resigning himself to dealing with two invalids at the same time, “Alchemists all over the place began to go into comas.”

“It happened whenever they tried to do alchemy,” his brother added, before giving a crocked smile, “Lucky for me, Fletcher worked that out pretty quick.”

Fletcher’s expression hovered between agreement and painful remembrance. He sighed. “Then they all began to wake up again. Only most of them woke up really weak and . . .”

“We got sick,” Russell completed bluntly, “Fevers, shivering sickness, _colds_. We’ve heard that some people have died because of it.” He arched an eyebrow. “That must be what happened to you, right? What were you doing out _there_ , though? This place might be home at the moment but even the people who’ve lived here all their lives say it’s the middle of nowhere.”

Ed’s scowl deepened as he tried to fight the wool inside his head. For some reason, it was proving incredibly hard to get the various bits of his memory to work together. There were big things looming just out of his reach and little things scurrying about under his thoughts and everything else was just sort of floating about in a mass of confused numbness. Where had he been? What had he been doing? He strained to connect the fragments, strained to remember what had happened 

Someone kicked the master lever and everything fell back into its proper place. The other world, the other people, the Marquis, the Templars, the circles and the homunculus-man and the Gate and _Chambers . . ._

Everything.

“Alphonse!” The yell was involuntary, a panicked reflex. He started to struggle with the covers, fighting to get up. One armed, one legged, it was an uphill battle but desperation always had a way of motivating him. He broke free of the blankets and pushed himself upright.

“Whoa!” Fletcher rushed to make him lie back down. “What’re you doing?”

“Let me up! Alphonse, Noah, the General, Hawkeye – all of them – they – I have to find them!”

“You’re in no state to find anyone!”

Despite the younger Tringham’s efforts, Ed managed to haul himself to the edge of the bed and swing his leg over. “Shut up and help me get out of here!” he snarled, “Or do I have to do it myself?”

Fletcher crossed his arms. “You _can’t_ go anywhere like that, Ed. You just _can’t_. Keep this up and you’ll end up like Russell!”

“Which,” his brother muttered, “is not much fun.”

Taking a deep, ragged breath, Ed braced himself. “Don’t. Tell me. What. I. Can’t. Do.” He flexed his hand and looked down at his ruined shoulder. The auto-mail socket had been almost completely stripped away. There was no way he was going to be able to clap. But he could still make a circle and that was all he needed. He slapped his shoulder, drawing energies up inside him, pouring them into a loop and then sending them streaming out into the bedstead –

“NO!” Russell dived from his chair and slammed into Ed’s back, disrupting his concentration just as the reaction begin to take hold.

There was a flash of blue light and a rush of noise and force.

“Yow!” Fletcher yelled and leapt backwards as a large chunk of the bed was reduced to smoking splinters.

Russell gingerly shifted to let Ed up.

Ed gaped. “What the fucking hell was that?” he demanded.

“Alchemy isn’t exactly working right now,” Russell explained, holding up his hands, “I think the best word for it would be ‘unstable’. As in, ‘explosively’.”

“B-but . . . but I can’t . . . I . . . can’t . . . and . . . I have to . . . to get . . .” Ed clutched the side of his head. “He . . . I . . . Alphonse . . . uhhhh –” He fell sideways and Russell had to grab him round the waist to stop him collapsing all the way and braining himself on the bedside table. His head lolled.

Russell hauled him over to the side of the bed that remained intact and gratefully let go. “Urh. He really has put on weight.” He saw Fletcher’s scandalised expression. “He’s all right. Just exhausted himself.”

“Are you sure . . . ?”

“No! Come and check!”

“Oh . . . right, yes!”

He rushed over and began to fuss over Ed, taking his pulse and checking his breathing. At length, he stepped back with a sigh of relief. “He’s all right.”

“Told you.” Russell dragged himself back to his chair. “Just exhausted like the rest of us.”

“What do you mean, the rest of us? I’m not even tired!”

“ _You_ ,” he replied coldly, “are more damn lucky than anyone deserves to be.”

Fletcher grinned, then became serious again. He stared worriedly at the unconscious man. “What are we going to do? He was asking for Alphonse but . . . but Alphonse is . . .”

Russell pointed. “Dead in the same way _he_ was dead?”

 

* * *

 

The first thing Ed asked for when he woke up again was the nearest phone.

“Down at the station,” Russell told him, “But it won’t do you much good even if you could get there. The storms brought the lines down from here to . . . pretty much everywhere.”

“What storms?”

“Oh, just the ones that have been wreaking havoc over the entire country for the past couple of weeks.”

They were alone in the room. Fletcher had had no choice but to leave one patient to watch over the other while he went to get groceries. Ed squinted towards the window. “It hasn’t been stormy while I’ve been awake.”

The older Tringham shrugged. “The weather’s starting to go back to normal. Well, the snow’s melting.”

“Snow? But it’s summer . . . isn’t it?”

“It _was_ spring. About the same time the plague started getting really bad, the weather went crazy. We had storms, blizzards, even earthquakes, though I suppose that’s not really weather. They’re only just starting to get the trains running and the phones working again. From the sound of things, it’s been bad everywhere.”

“Crazy weather.” Ed hesitated. “And earthquakes . . . hn.”

Russell cleared his throat. “You . . . know something about that?” he asked, almost casually.

This earned a fresh glare, one that quickly broke up under obvious worry. “Maybe . . .” came the eventual reply, “It’s a long story,” Ed added weakly.

A snort from Russell brought the glare back. “So?” The boy’s voice was flat. “You’re not going anywhere and neither am I.”

Ed set his jaw. “I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to find Al!”

“Why? Where is he?”

“I don’t know!”

“Why not?”

“I – it’s too complicated – I _need to find him_!”

Levering himself up one handed – as if he had a choice – Ed flung the covers off, managing to do it slightly more neatly this time. He manoeuvred himself around and grabbed the bedstead. Using it as a prop, he got up. Russell sat watching his efforts wordlessly. Carefully moving his hand to the wall, Ed eased away from the bed and glanced down. It hadn’t registered before that he was wearing someone else’s pyjama trousers. They were striped green and yellow and had to be some of the most hideous clothes he had ever seen. More importantly, they would be useless on a long journey. He needed proper clothes. He also needed to get a good look at the damage to his auto-mail, not to mention his body in general, and to wash. This last had less to do with vanity and far more to do with experience of life without good medical care or alchemy.

He braced himself and heaved himself through the first hop. His leg protested painfully when he landed back on it, but it supported him. With a groan and a wince, he repeated the effort. That got him halfway to the far wall and the door out of the bedroom. Unfortunately, it also cost him his balance. “Ahh!”

The floor rushed up to meet him and he hissed with pain as he jarred his damaged shoulder against the bed. His face contorted and he bit his lip. Fine. He’d crawl. It would probably be easier anyway.

The floorboards creaked. Ed looked up to see that Russell was standing in his way. “Fletcher would have a fit if he caught you doing this,” he said quietly, “He did when it was me.”

Ed did not respond. Russell laughed suddenly and it made him look much older. “Funny isn’t it? When it’s them looking out for you. You’re their big brother, the one who has to do everything that dad and mom used to do. It feels wrong. And I think it feels wrong for them as well. Someone so much older and wiser collapsing in front of you . . . how would you feel about that?” There was a silence. Russell knelt and looked Ed in the eye. “You never told us you were alive.” His voice cracked slightly. “After Al came out of that place . . . we thought you were dead. And after those . . . things in Central, when you were supposed to have come back – when you died again – Didn’t you think you could trust us? Didn’t you think it mattered that we thought you were . . .” He breathed deeply and looked away. “I know we were never exactly friends but we _helped you_. Maybe you couldn’t contact anyone, maybe you wouldn’t have come to us anyway . . . but here you are. Alive. And we’re helping you. Again.”

“I don’t . . . have time . . . to explain,” Ed ground out, “I have to –”

Russell cut him off. “I know.” He reached out and began to help Ed back to his foot. “I just want you to remember that you owe a lot of people a lot of answers.”

 

* * *

 

The face in the mirror was, even Ed had to admit, a good advert for his continued convalescence. His cheeks were sunken. His eyes were red and rimmed with bruise-coloured bags. His hair was matted and limp and practically down to his elbows. His skin was covered in a sheen of sweat. He looked about ten times worse than Russell: in short, terrible.

He rubbed at the fine stubble on his chin. Seeing himself looking quite so beaten up took the wind out of his sails. It didn’t help that the rest of his body was just as bad. Half-healed cuts and scrapes covered his intact arm and leg, while what was left of his auto-mail sockets bit painfully into raw flesh. Add to that the fact that every muscle in his body was aching and bed regained its attractiveness.

But then Al’s face was back in front of his eyes, sharp against the emptiness between worlds as the limbo creatures tore through the Gatekeepers and everything burnt away to brilliance.

Ed refocused on the mirror and caught Russell looking at him from behind. The younger man had an odd expression on his face. Suddenly extremely self-conscious, Ed turned to glare at him “Can I have something to wash with?” he asked.

Russell blinked. The words caught up with him a second later. “What? Urr . . . yes, hang on.” He went out, returning quickly with a towel and a flannel. He looked slightly red. “Here. Do you need help?”

“Do you care if your floor gets wet?”

Dumbly, Russell shook his head.

“Then I don’t.”

“O-OK. I’ll be right outside if you change your mind.” He hurried out again.

Ed stared at the door as it swung shut. “Hn?” Then, dismissing everything outside of the task at hand, he began to wash.

 

* * *

 

“HE’S WHAT?!” Fletcher’s voice shot up several octaves.

“Getting dressed,” Russell repeated, vaguely guiltily.

“And you _let him_?!”

“Um . . .”

“Russell, he’s _sick_! He’s lost his auto-mail, he’s feverish – we found him lying naked in the snow!”

“He was wearing –”

“That’s not the point!” The younger Tringham stamped his foot for emphasis and shook a finger angrily under his brother’s nose. “He’s _sick_! And even if he wasn't, he’s _crippled_! He’s in no state to make long journeys even if the trains were all working and they’re _not_! Do you know what that means? That means having to get carts and boats and just plain _walk_ a lot of the way and he _can’t_. And we can’t leave here to look after him. You’re too ill and I’m too busy helping save what’s left of the crops – and looking after you! If we let him do this, he’ll kill himself! _And I’m not going to let that happen_!”

Russell flinched. But he when he looked up, he looked strangely determined. “He’s desperate, Fletch. About Al. He’s really scared that something’s happened to him.”

“Al’s supposed to be _dead_!”

“So was Ed. Something happened and he’s terrified that Al’s . . . I don’t know what. And he’ll do anything to find him.” His mouth twitched. “Just like I would, if I thought something had happened to you.”

“Rus . . . he can’t do anyone any good like this.” Fletcher’s expression became pained. “He needs to rest.”

“He needs to get to Central – the military, anyway. They can help him, help find Al. And they can look after him better than we can. Neither of us has experience with medical stuff and if he stays around me, he’s likely to catch something.”

“Central’s in _ruins_!” Fletcher protested.

“Don’t exaggerate. From all we’ve heard, the damage isn’t as bad as everyone thought. And they’ve set up a temporary parliament and hospitals and things like that.”

“But . . .” Still determined to argue against the idea, Fletcher gesticulated wildly and went back to his original point. “He’s in no shape to go all that way alone.”

“He won’t _be_ alone. We can ask the conductor to look after him.”

“But one train won’t be able to go all the way...”

“Then we ask the conductor to make sure he gets passed on to someone who can look after him between stations,” Russell answered, making it sound blatantly obvious, “We’re not short of money, we can make it worth their while.”

Fletcher looked extremely dubious. “But we can’t be sure of that . . . if he goes . . . one of us should go with him. Maybe . . . you go and stay with Georges and I could . . .”

“You said it yourself,” Russell cut in with remorseless logic, “you’re too busy saving the crops.”

“But –”

“I’m going. You’re staying. Live with it.” Ed hopped towards them, emerging from Russell’s bedroom dressed in trousers that were too long and a shirt that had clearly been cut for someone with a much slimmer build. He had made the most of them, though, tying up the loose pant and sleeve as best he could. He had even managed to find a crutch, which he'd wedged under his left armpit and was wielding with considerable skill. “It’s not as if I’ll be doing much most of the way anyway.”

“But . . .” Fletcher tried again, sounding close to despair.

“Don’t bother,” his brother told him, gently, “The only way you’ll stop him is to tie him down –”

“Just try it,” Ed growled.

“– and you don’t have it in you,” Russell completed.

“I do,” he added after a moment’s thought, “But I’m not going to.”

“Because he likes his teeth where they are.” Somehow, even while one-legged, Ed managed to stalk as he advanced past them and towards the front door.

Fletcher stared wide eyed at the indomitable, wild haired spectre “You’re not going _now_?!”

“Yes I am. The sooner I’m on the way, the sooner I get to Central and the sooner I can get after Al.”

“B-but that’s crazy! You need to eat at least!”

“There’s a bakery in this place, isn’t there? Then I’ll get food on the way to the station.”

Fletcher mouthed with the eloquence of a grounded carp. And, at last, admitted defeat. His shoulders sagged. “This is crazy,” he repeated, resignedly, “And you’re going to need to wear more than that. I’ll go and get you a jumper and a coat . . . and a hat, probably . . .” Muttering darkly, he hurried to overtake Ed and get to the coat-hooks.

Russell tilted his head to the side and looked their soon-to-be-gone guest up and down. “You want something to tie your hair back with?”

“Hm?” Ed looked back, frowning before leaning against the wall and pushing his hand through his loose mane. “Urr . . . no. I’ll only end up wasting time having to tie it up again later. Anyway, like this it’s gonna keep me warmer.”

“I guess so . . .” A faint smile crossed Russell’s face. “Heh.”

“ _What_?”

“It’s a good disguise as well. You look completely different like that.”

There was that odd expression again. Ed didn’t get any time to wonder about it though, as Fletcher bustled back with an armful thick overcoat and floppy hat with ear flaps. The Fullmetal Alchemist treated the latter to his most withering look. “No.”

“But –” Fletcher began.

“No. Way. In. Hell.”

“Oh.” His face fell.

Chuckling, Russell darted into his room, emerging a moment later with the wide-brimmed hat that had been hanging on the back of its door. “Here. I’d just better get this back in one piece.”

“If I break it, I’ll buy you a new one,” Ed retorted sarcastically.

“I’ll put it on your bill. We _are_ the ones paying for you to go off and play hero, remember?”

Setting the hat on his head, Ed tugged it until it was firmly on. “I’ll come and pay you back. And I’ll bring Al with me.”

“And then you can explain everything.” This time, Russell’s smile dripped insincere sweetness. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to let you forget that, either.”

“I’ll bet.”

Impatiently, Ed let Fletcher help him into the coat. As soon as it was all buttoned up and he had resettled the crutch beneath his elbow, he resumed his stalk towards the door.

“Wait!” Fletcher practically yelped. He dived for his own coat and hat.

“Don’t argue,” Russell advised Ed as the latter opened his mouth, “He’ll only run you down if you try and make a break for it. And I am not chasing you two through the town. It’d be embarrassing.” He set about collecting out-door garments for himself while Ed fumed in the corner.

 

* * *

 

There was a train waiting when they got to the station, which was hardly surprising given that it had arrived with roughly a month’s worth of late mail on board and had taken over an hour to fully unload. The guard was sympathetic to their story about Ed having to get to Central to find his brother – they left out most of the details, letting the man assume that it was all because of the earthquakes and storms – and agreed to keep an eye on him and to put in a word with whoever was in charge of the connecting train. He had a cousin, he explained, who had lost a leg in the war and knew how hard it was for cripples to go on long journeys.

In the interests of maintaining civil relations, Ed did not break his nose.

There was the obligatory uncomfortable silence as they stood by the carriage door. Ed munched on the last of the vegetable pastry that he – well, Fletcher – had bought at the bakery. There was a loaf of bread and a meat pie stuffed in his pockets to be eaten once he was safely on his way. Russell had intercepted a bundle of letters addressed to the Tringhams and was flicking through them, eyebrow arching every so often. Fletcher just stood there, trembling with suppressed anxiety.

“Ah.” Russell pulled a crumpled piece of paper free of the bundle. “You might need this, Ed. It’s from Maria Ross.”

“Who?” Ed asked through a mouthful of crust, “Oh, _Lieutenant_ Ross.”

“Yes. She and Warrant Officer Bloch write to us sometimes, to check up on us. It’s sweet, really. She’s checking we’re all right after everything. It’s got the address for the Military’s temporary central command while the repairs are going on. Guess that’s where you need to get to.”

“Thank –” Ed swallowed. “Thanks.”

“Tell her we’re fine.”

“Right.” He turned to lurch up the steps.

“Hey, Ed.” Fletcher’s call brought him up short.

“Yeah?”

“Good luck.”

He swung back to look down at the kid. “Thanks. And . . .” His mouth twitched. “Thanks. For everything. You too,” he added, surprising himself by how ungrudging he sounded.

Russell smirked and mockingly tapped his forelock. “Glad to help. Glad you listened to someone for once.”

“Huh?”

“You came back alive.”

For the first time in days, Ed genuinely smiled. Then he vanished into the carriage.

Fletcher wrung his hands and turned big, worried eyes on his brother. “Do you think he’ll be OK . . . ?”

Russell, who was still watching the space Ed had just vacated, did not answer straight away. Eventually, he raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “Is he ever?” For just a moment, the expression that had baffled Ed was back. It disappeared as the deafening hoot of a steam whistle rent the air. Russell tugged his coat around him. “Come on. I’m not standing out in the cold to wave him off. You _know_ he’s not going to wave back,” he pointed out when Fletcher looked scandalised.

The locomotive huffed and puffed and the train slowly slid into motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Again, terribly sorry for posting this without notes this morning.  
> \- I've always found the idea of the Tringhams essentially being souped up botanists tremendously entertaining.  
> \- Brina is made up. I think this may have been due to lack of access to a map of Amestris when I first wrote the story.


	3. Thief of Hearts

It was not a comfortable journey.

Of course, Ed was neither expecting it to be nor unused to travelling in discomfort. But it had been a long time since he had been without his auto-mail. And then he had had – as much as he hated to admit it – someone extremely qualified to look after him, namely his dad.

The seats in the carriage were hard, the suspension rickety and the heating non-existent. He couldn’t get settled and fidgeted for hours, repeatedly catching the side of his head on the window ledge and generally getting antsy about having to stay in one place without any distractions. All he could do was sit and worry and pretend to be asleep when the preternaturally cheerful guard came around to ‘keep him company’. On top of all that, he was getting stomach cramps from having wolfed down the pastry and bread. The way his head began to swim only added to his misery.

He was almost pathetically grateful when they reached the station he had to change at and he was able to hobble out into the fresh air for a while. The shock of it, less frigid, still unseasonably cold, was enough to bring him out of his stupor for a while.

The next train was worse. He was wedged between a flustered travelling businessman with an enormous suitcase and a woman who was just plain enormous. Some kid was screaming the whole time and his stump hurt more with every jolt. Ed was increasingly certain that it had begun to bleed or seep pus or something. He would have tried to get the seat to himself by mentioning this but he suspected that this might lead to someone offering to ‘help’ and that would probably make things worse. Instead, he suffered in relative silence and miles and miles of countryside passed in a stifling blur, the inside of his head full of dull, sluggish thoughts and bursts of deep red pain.

He needed help from the guard and the conductor to get down to the platform in Cormath. It was nearly an hour before he recovered enough strength to hobble to the dock and the boat that was taking passengers across the estuary while the Great Viaduct was repaired. He could barely keep down the soup someone had given him in a moment of pity.

Then, for the first time in his life, he was seasick.

 

* * *

 

By the time he got to the other side of the water, to find that the only way to get to the next station – the one still connected to Central – was by road, Ed was about ready to collapse. He got most of the way up the high street before fatigue and dizziness overcame him. Lurching into the relative shelter of a shop doorway, he crumpled into a heap, the crutch clattering on the flag stones.

It was getting dark, the only passers-by hurrying along home. All the shops were shut up for the night, their owners retreated to the back rooms or already gone. No one spared the great hero of the people a second glance. Perhaps they assumed the police would move him on. Perhaps they just didn’t care. Perhaps he should have tried to find a place to stay down on the docks. But desperation, the knowledge that people were depending on him, had driven him on before he could think things through and realise that there would be no one to hitch a ride with this late in the day.

Angry, with himself and the universe in general, he dragged the hat from his head and leant back against the door, cursing his weakness. Damn Fletcher for being right. Damn Chambers for shattering his auto-mail. Damn the cosmos for shaking the railways to bits. “Al . . .” he whispered, as if the name would conjure his brother out of thin air, “Noah . . .” Them and the Bastard Colonel, and Hawkeye. What had happened to them? He hardly dared think about it. If they had come through the Gate safely, why had they not been in the snow next to him? If they hadn’t . . .

With a sharp _chink_ , a a handful of coins landed at his foot. For a while, Ed simply stared at them, confused by their sudden appearance. Eventually, however, he registered the person who had tossed them down to him and looked up.

She had blonde hair tied up in a bun and a full, heart-shaped face. Her coat was long and dark, worn over a simple blouse and skirt. There was nothing remarkable about her, although she was quite pretty. She looked down at him with wide, amused eyes.

“I’m not begging,” he rasped, irritated that anyone would think he was.

“You look like you need it, all the same.” She smiled as she said it. “Or do you just really like shop doorways?”

Ed’s face crumpled into a glare and he tried to drag himself back to his feet. He fell back almost immediately, breathing raggedly. The woman watched him, that spark of amusement still obvious.

Something else fell from her hand, something that fluttered down to rest a little closer to him than the coins. A single playing card. The Queen of Hearts. He reached out and picked it up, turning it over, staring at the pattern on the back.

“Is that enough to jog your memory?” she asked coyly, fingers going to her blouse’s top button, “Or do I need to do something a bit more extreme?”

“ _Psiren_?”

She smiled. “You _do_ remember me then?”

“What the hell are you doing here?” There was little real force in the words – he was too astonished and too tired to be angry.

The thief shrugged. “At the moment, confirming my suspicions.” She knelt down, the better to see his eyes. “I thought so. Even after all this time, I’ve never met anyone else with eyes quite like those.”

Ed shifted, looking away, abruptly defensive. “Am I supposed to believe that you were just in the neighbourhood?”

“Believe what you like.” Her smile didn’t fade. “I saw you in Cormath. I saw your eyes on the boat over. Didn’t you see me looking at you?”

He shook his head once, sharply. Psiren shrugged again. “I suppose I am quite good at not being seen,” she observed, “You seem to have gone down in the world.” The only reply she got was a glare, weakened by exhaustion and overuse. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry. Come on. I’ve got a flat nearby.”

“ _What_?”

“Warmth, shelter, sofas – or you can spend the night out here. But as a trained medic, I have to tell you, that’s not a very good idea.”

Ed managed to make a noise that combined derision, disbelief and defeat in a single syllable.

 

* * *

 

Psiren’s flat was on the bottom floor of an old stone town house. It was surprisingly sparse for the home of a jewel thief, the walls bare except for a few mirrors, the furniture old and worn. She guided Ed to a battered sofa, made him lie down and vanished for a moment to retrieve a first aid box.

He hissed as she pulled the fabric of the rolled up trouser-leg away from his stump. When Psiren got a good look at it, so did she. “If this feels as bad as it looks, I’m amazed you managed to get up from the docks at all.”

Ed tried, with limited success, to look unfazed by the sticky mess that was the remains of his auto-mail port. “It doesn’t . . . and I’ve got a high pain threshold.”

“Hmm.” She tutted and rummaged through the box. “I can clean it up but you need a doctor or an engineer.”

“ _I know_ ,” he retorted sullenly, “Where do you think I’m going . . . ?”

“From the way you look? The nearest soup kitchen.”

Deftly, Psiren soaked a pad of cotton wool in antiseptic and applied it to Ed’s flesh. He stifled a yell, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood.

“You do have to admit, you don’t look like a great and powerful State Alchemist any more.”

“Nuh . . . and what are _you_ supposed to be this time? Librarian? Teacher again? Or did the catsuit just shrink in the wash – ow!”

“ _I_ am a respected member of the community. For the moment, anyway. It’s a handy trick called ‘keeping a low profile.’” She glanced up at the ceiling. “Actually, now I think about it, I’ve been going straight for nearly a year and a half now.”

“Right . . .” he groaned, “And I’m the King of Sweden.”

“Of where?”

“It – _ow_ – doesn’t matter.”

For a few minutes, they sat in silence, save for Ed’s occasional grunts of discomfort. But when Psiren turned to dig out a new pad, he cleared his throat.

“So why are you helping me, exactly? I thought we were . . . even.”

“I _am_ a nurse,” she reminded him, upending the bottle of antiseptic into the pad.

“Like _hell_ you – nuh!”

“I’m a medically trained alchemist.” This time the retort was deadly serious. “You don’t need many qualifications to be a nun or a teacher but working in a hospital needs more than a sweet tongue. Or did you think I’d buttered my way in?”

“Saying you couldn’t?” Ed mumbled, fighting to keep his eyes open.

Psiren grinned, flashing bright white teeth. “Of course I could. But hurting people because you don’t know what’s going on isn’t good cover. Anyway,” she added, moving to get at his shoulder, “you’ve got a serious infection, the results of major bodily trauma and signs of dire exhaustion and recent hypothermia. I wouldn’t leave a rat sitting on the street like that.”

“You just said that – guh – to impress me.”

“It’s also true. Hmm. It’s no good, I can’t do this up your sleeve.

Her fingers caught at the buttons of his shirt, deftly unfastening it before he had time to realise what she was doing. He groaned, dimly annoyed that people kept undressing him, like he was a four year old or something. Psiren lifted an eyebrow and it dawned on him that he’d mumbled the thought out loud.

“Is that a complaint?”

“Nuh . . . A great weight was slowly coming down behind Ed’s eyes. The shocks from the antiseptic had been pushing it back but now it came on remorselessly, blotting everything out. His head fell forward, lost to gravity. The absurd coincidence of running into and being helped by someone else he knew flashed across his mind, just before it went dark. _Maybe I’m getting lucky . . ._

He muttered it aloud but if Psiren replied, he didn’t hear her.

 

* * *

 

Feverish dreams rushed in to fill the darkness. Hideous shapes with grasping claws loomed large, reaching out to rip and tear. His own face screamed at him from the bottom of a well, eyes burning with hate and purple fire. A man glanced down at him from atop a huge stone throne then turned away, dismissing him as an irrelevance. Al tumbled past, back to back with Noah, their fingertips wound together, their hair billowing in a wind he could not feel. Back on a bridge in Aquroya, Psiren collapsed under his weight, playing cards fluttering around them, the transmutation circle on her chest glowing softly. Winry watched him from balcony of her granny’s house, flicking a lantern on and off as he trudged towards her along a long and winding road, people he couldn’t see following him out of the darkness. Envy laughed at him from behind an opera mask, mocking chuckling growing louder and louder until it was a long, tortured tumult of insane cackling. Blazing figures cut across the chaos, growing taller and taller until they filled the world, from horizon to horizon. Seven faces blacker than obsidian turned to him, speaking in unison a single word.

 

* * *

 

Sunlight half-blinded Ed. He promptly screwed his eyes shut again and moaned, trying to roll over and hide from the glare. Agony shot across his shoulders and up through his abdomen. “Gaaaaa!”

“Good morning, sleepy-head.” Psiren materialised at his side, a glass of water in one hand, a white pill in the other. “Here. Swallow this. It should help with the pain.”

He nearly choked, but a couple of gulps of water dislodged the tablet and washed it down. He fell back against the cushions as Psiren took the glass away. “ _Urgh_.”

His head was a lump of stone, impossibly heavy, flopping around uselessly on the end of his neck. Thoughts only half-formed before they fell apart under their own sluggish weight. The urge to get up was terrible, but the feeling of weakness that seeped through every part of his body was utterly overpowering. “ _Daaamn . . ._ ” he hissed, voice a wavering shadow of a noise.

The next thing he knew, Psiren was staring down at him again, looking unexpectedly concerned. Worry changed her face completely, erasing almost all the usual smug amusement. It made her look . . . _kind_. “It really tears you up, doesn’t it?” she said quietly, not making any attempt to hide her expression as most people might have, “Being helpless. It’s not the pain that matters at all.”

Ed growled something incoherent and obscene.

“You and your charming invitations.” She was suddenly the efficient thief with her tongue in her cheek again. “You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve arranged transport to take us to the next town. It’ll probably be a tight squeeze in the back of Hiram’s trap but I’m sure you’ll be able to put up with it for an hour. Of course, if you want me to ask him to take the scenic route . . .”

The words trickled into his brain. After a moment, they triggered a slightly more awake form of reasoning. “You’ve . . . what do you mean, ‘us’?”

“That I can’t look after you proeprly, that it’d be odds on whether you’d be killed by my lack of skill or your own impatience and that you are – or were – a State Alchemist, which means you probably belong with your own kind, which means you should carry on to Central. Oh, and there’s no way you’ll make it the rest of the way without someone like me looking after you.”

Ed blinked rapidly. “When did I tell you where I was going?”

“When I overheard you talking to the harbour master.” She sat down next to him and placed a hand on his brow. “Hmm. You get careless when you’re close to running a fever.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” he muttered, trying not to enjoy the coolness of her touch.

“Depends on how deeply rubbed in the paranoia is. Open wide.”

He accepted the thermometer without question, forcing himself to be patient while she checked the reading. Finally freed with a tut from Psiren, he leaned a little way to the side so he could see as much of her as he was likely to from that angle. “Why . . .” He stopped and started again. “What do you want? You’re not just helping me for what happened in Aquroya. You can’t be. So what do you want? Why do you give a shit about me?”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t turn. “I don’t suppose you’d buy the Hippocratic oath?”

“You’re no doctor.”

“No, I’m not. I’m a thief and a damn good one. I spend my life taking things away from other people and I honestly have no reason to give anything back. I could go on about my youth – which was lousy, by the way – or the fact that surviving in this world means doing whatever you can to beat the competition – which it is – or that there’s honour among thieves. Honour among thieves! _Please_.” _Now_ she turned and there was nothing like kindness or smugness in her face. “What do I want from you? I don’t know yet. But one day, I’m going to ask you to pay me back for this. And you’ll agree. Because you’re an honest kid. And you know what? You’re famous. You’re important. You’re the Fullmetal Alchemist, hero of the people. You sacrificed your life for the good of the country – or as good as. Whatever story they spin is going to have your name on everyone’s lips. They’re going to put you up on a pedestal, the young genius who helped show that State Alchemists don’t have to be monsters. And when they do, a favour from you will go a long way.” She laughed softly and the smugness was back. “I don’t know what it’ll be yet. Might just be a hotel room and a bottle of the best wine. Might be the keys to the Central Bank. But I think, in a few years, I’ll be able to ask you for whatever I want. And get it.”

She stood up, leaving Ed feeling slightly stunned. Without waiting for him to say anything else, she packed up the thermometer and made her way towards the door. “I’ll get you some soup then we can clean you up a bit before Hiram gets here.” With a final swish of skirts, she vanished. Ed gaped after her, then closed his mouth and let his head sink towards his chest.

And tried not to think too hard about what he was pretty sure had been the first truly honest thing Psiren had ever told him.

 

* * *

 

“So how did _you_ escape the alchemy plague?”

Hiram’s trap had turned out to not only be cramped and uncomfortable but rickety and fitted with worse suspension than the trains. Hiram himself was sullen and possibly mute, since he hadn’t said two words to them since they’d got in. Ed wondered exactly what Psiren had done to get him to take them – and quickly decided he didn’t want to know. For all that, he felt surprisingly awake and alive. Somewhere along the line, the combination of painkillers, a proper wash, fresh bandages and decent soup had perked him up, melted the stone inside his head and let him think properly again. Of course, the only thing he wanted to think about was Al and that just made the road stretch off to infinity and time slow to a crawl. Suddenly the world was moving too slow for his mind, rather than the other way around. So, in a very grudging effort to not drive himself insane, he made an attempt at small talk.

Psiren, for her part, was being surprisingly accommodating. Oh, she clearly enjoyed making him uncomfortable by squashing up to him a little more than was strictly necessary – although not enough to make his wounds hurt – but beyond that, she simply checked that the blanket was tight around him and then sat back and kept quiet. He supposed she _did_ have a good grasp on psychology and was silently grateful that she hadn’t tried to start a conversation before he did.

“By not doing alchemy,” she said promptly, “I told you I was lying low.”

He glanced at her sideways from under Russell’s hat, frowning. “What, you don’t do _any_ alchemy when you’re hiding?”

“Of course I don’t. That _would_ be a bit of a giveaway, wouldn’t it?” She didn’t seem particularly concerned that Hiram was only a foot in from of them. Perhaps he was deaf as well.

“Isn’t that . . . hard?” He tried to imagine being able to do alchemy and not using it. Being without it on the other side of the Gate had been hellish to begin with. For quite a long time after, too.

Psiren shrugged. “Not really. You get used to giving things up and acting in new ways when you live my kind of life.”

He tried to picture what that must be like, to be able to let bits of how you were slide about and disappear. “Doesn’t that . . .” He wasn’t sure how to end the question. She had already given him far too much to think about.

So he left it hanging and went back to watching the landscape creep by, willing it to go by faster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Quite unconsciously, I've written it so that each of our heroes faces a different sort of challenge: for Ed, of course, it's being helpless through illness, which is not something he deals with well at all.  
> \- Bringing back Psiren just seemed like the right thing to do.  
> \- More on the Elrics' fame later . . .


	4. What Comes Around

By the time they got to the station, the painkillers were wearing off. Every lurching step smarted like hell and Ed was ludicrously happy that they didn’t have to walk far along the platform. It was pathetic, really. He _had_ managed to drag himself all the way down from Brina without painkillers. But once the pain had been eased, even briefly, facing it head-on again was much harder. When they boarded the train, he sank into his seat with an uncharacteristic sigh of gratitude, only to grunt irritably when the carriage began to move and jolted over the points.

Wordlessly, Psiren handed him another tablet and a flask. “You’re astonishing,” she murmured after he handed the water back.

“What?” he demanded.

“Have you ever actually asked for something to take away pain in your life? If you’d said something back at the station, I’d have given it to you then. It’d have been safe.”

He scowled, saying nothing.

She scratched her nose. “No, don’t tell me. Let me guess. Pain is a fact of life. You don’t care about injury until you can’t get up any more. And even then, if there’s a quick, painful solution and a long, painless one, you’ll bite your lip and go with the first any day. Because it’s not the pain that matters, it’s what you’ve got to do. My, your family must love that.”

Ed closed his eyes and Al was there in from of them, Noah, Hawkeye, Mustang, Winry –

Winry? He hadn’t thought about her once since he’d come back through the Gate. He wasn’t prepared for the rush of emotions that boiled up inside his chest and brought a lump to his throat. He could _see_ her again. She was only a train ride away. She was – oh . . . no . . . what if . . . the earthquakes, the storms . . . what if . . .

“Done much people watching?” Psiren said it casually. Almost as if she wasn’t trying to distract him.

He gave in, hating himself for it, and let her pull him away from his worry. “Not really. What do you mean?”

“I mean, watching people. Trying to work out who they are, what they do for a living . . . how rich they are.”

“Oh, _right_. That kind of ‘watching’.”

“No need to sound so critical. I’m sure it’s the kind of thing a great and powerful alchemist could find quite useful.” She tipped her head a little. “That woman opposite. What do you see?”

He looked, briefly, just flicking his eyes to the right. “Middle aged. Not tall. Blonde hair. Dyed, not very well. Lots of make-up. Decent clothes. Doesn’t exactly look rich but . . . could be well off. Ring on her left hand, could be expensive. Hand bag, suitcase in the rack. Nothing else. From the west, I’d guess.”

Psiren nodded slowly. “I’m impressed. You missed the shoes though. Battered, old. She’s not that well off but wants to look like she’s doing OK. The hair and the make-up is to draw attention to her face. Make people notice her clothes less. Probably not worth robbing.”

Ed snorted.

“Alright,” she went on with a grin, “What about that man over there?”

It was a game before he knew it. Psiren would point someone out and he had to get one good look at them, without them seeing him. Then he had to tell her who he thought they were and she would point out a dozen things he had missed. The train stopped at every station and picked up passengers at most of them, so there was no shortage of targets. If she hoped to find a way to keep him occupied, she could not have picked anything better. It was a challenge and Ed had never been able to resist those.

“A business man. Briefcase, glasses, that suit . . . and he’s used to first class. Doesn’t like being packed in with the rest of us. He’s got money but this is the only way he’s going to get through to wherever he’s going.”

“Banker,” Psiren agreed, “And he’s got something valuable with him.”

“The way he’s keeping that briefcase on his knees like that?”

“No one sits that rigid if they’re not looking after something important. And it’s chained to his wrist.”

Ed risked a second look. “Oh. Yeah.”

“Saw it when he came in.”

“That’s cheating.”

“That’s – oh...”

“What?”

Psiren’s voice dropped to a whisper. “That man who just sat down.”

Ed’s eyes flicked up. “What about him?”

“He was trying too hard not to look at the banker. Or he’s trying not to make it obvious when he does look.”

“So wh – oh. You think he’s . . .”

“I don’t know. Could be.”

“What do we do?”

Psiren’s eyebrows rose very high at that. “I don’t know about you, I’m going to watch with professional interest. You’re hardly in a fit state to do anything else, either.”

Ed seethed and clamped his mouth shut, knowing full well that there was nothing he could say to that. For nearly half an hour, he kept a surreptitious watch on the banker and the man who might or might not be trying not to look at him. The train was by then rattling through flat, open countryside, the sun gradually being swallowed by the horizon. The other passengers were quiet and subdued, all apparently lost in their own thoughts, alternatively staring out the windows or blankly into space. Psiren looked like she might have been dozing, her eyes unfocused and half-closed.

It was excruciating, like waiting for a bomb to go off without being sure it really was a bomb.

A few times, Ed felt the urge to go and beat the might-be robber around the head until he admitted to something. But that was obviously impossible. Which just added to his frustration.

“Damnit . . . just do something already . . .”

He realised he shouldn’t have said that the moment it left his lips. Edward Elric might have been a card carrying disbeliever but he knew tempting fate when he did it.

Thirty five seconds later, the whole train shook and the brakes shrieked.

Everyone woke up at once, with various muffled curses and yelps. As the train juddered to a halt, the banker reflexively drew his briefcase closer to his chest and flattened himself into his seat. At exactly the same instant, the definitely-a-thief surged to his feet and drew something long and gleaming out of his jacket.

“Fuck me!” Ed breathed.

The man had a frickin’ machete! And was advancing on the banker remorselessly, clearly very intent on removing whatever valuables the guy was guarding.

If someone didn’t do something _fast_ , someone was going to get badly hurt. And likely worse.

So Ed, being Ed, acted.

If he had thought about it, he probably wouldn't have. It was an insane risk. And stupidly dangerous. But there was no time to think and no time to do consider the risks. His hand was flat against Psiren's chest before the man with the machete had taken two steps. Blue light surged up from under Psiren's clothes, miniture lightning bolts coursing across Ed's body and out through his foot, cutting a dagger-straight line along the carriage floor. He formed the equations as the energy flew, shaping the alchemy on reflex, on instinct, on years of practical experience.

Wood became molten under the swordsman’s feet. Tendrils of matter whipped up at him, wrapping tightly around his waist, his thighs, his wrists. In the time it took Psiren to gasp in shock, the would-be robber was completely immobilised.

Ed's shout of triumph came out as a stifled moan. He swayed, feeling incredibly light-headed. Psiren said something that he couldn't hear over the pounding of blood in his ears. Gently, she prised his hand from her tattoo. He promptly collapsed sideways and lay across the seats, breathing hard and shivering. This left him blessedly oblivious to the screaming and shouting that followed.

 

* * *

 

When he came round, Psiren was leaning over him, her fingers deftly knotting a cord around his wrist. He groaned and tried to pull away. “Don’t worry,” she whispered in his ear, “Just a little insurance.”

Ed squinted. A silver pendent hung from his wrist, inscribed with a less complex version of Psiren’s tattooed transmutation circle.

She helped him sit up, holding a finger to her lips as she did. The other passengers seemed to have congregated at the other end of the carriage, leaving the two of them briefly alone.

“That was . . . impressive,” she said, slightly huskily.

Ed became uncomfortably aware that the top buttons of her shirt were undone.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, “Just . . .”

“Oh, don’t worry. It was quite . . . exhilarating, actually. How did you know it was safe to use alchemy again, exactly?”

“I . . .”

“Ah.” She took a deep breath and seemed to be mentally recomposing herself. “Well, I’m glad you were right.”

“Hey! He’s awake!” A gangling young man was pointing excitedly at them. All at once, a babbling crowd surrounded them and Ed had to fight the urge to flatten himself against the window.

The banker pushed his way to the front and seized his hand, pumping it up and down with unbridled enthusiasm. “Thank you, sir, thank you! I cannot thank you enough! I dread to think what would have happened if you had not been so quick thinking and courageous! I will make sure my superiors at the National Bank hear the whole story! I shouldn’t be at all surprised if they offer you a reward!”

“Uh . . . don’t worry about it.” Ed extracted his now-numb hand, trying hard not to see Psiren’s sudden look of interest. “Just . . . trying to help.”

“Never seen anything like it!” The young man was talking rapidly to anyone who would listen. “Just changed the wood! Didn’t even touch the rest of the coach!”

“Does this mean alchemy’s working again?” A mousy woman added that, wringing her hands. “I mean, there wasn’t an explosion . . .”

“Must be,” an older man with a thick beard exclaimed, “About time too, if you ask me. Maybe now the railways will start working properly again!”

“And they’ll get Central fixed up in no time flat!” The young man again, but his attention swiftly reverted to Ed. “That was so cool though. Just – zap – BANG and he’s all trussed up like that! It was great! You got a real talent there, mister.”

“I will pay out of my own pocket for auto-mail surgery,” the banker said abruptly, “I will get you the best in the land. The bank might agree to put forward part of it, but I would willingly supplement the rest. You have no idea how disastrous it would have been if . . . oh, but I can’t bear to think about it!”

“Ahem.” Psiren cleared her throat, a single, prim, authoritative noise that brought instant silence. “I’m sure Mr Elric is very grateful for your attention but he has had a long journey and as his nurse, I must insist that he be given some space.”

“Oh, of course.” The banker beat a hasty retreat, forcing several of the others to move with him. “I am sorry – yes, everyone, please give the gentleman room.”

The crowd began to split up and drifted back to their seats, affording a view of the train officials and policemen who were busy taking photos of a hole in the floor. It was the young man, perhaps predictably, who reacted first. “Wai – El – did you say –?”

Psiren’s steady, blankly intimidating gaze stopped him in his tracks. He chuckled nervously and went on his way.

Ed gritted his teeth and tried not to hit anything. Around them, a quiet but excited hubbub announced that other people were suddenly making a very particular connection.

 

* * *

 

The police were thorough. They got the carriage shunted off to a siding, the passengers transferred to a fresh one, took statements from everyone present – Ed had to admit Psiren did a wonderful job of smoothing over their presence – and thanked them all for their patience, having organised an evening meal for them in the meantime. By the time the train pulled away, most of the passengers were deep in conversation, talking with the friendly ease of people stuck in the same boat. There was little doubt as to what they were talking about. Ed and Psiren were given a wide, awed berth. Occasionally someone would glance at them with open curiosity, only to quickly hide it.

When the train pulled into Central, at some unholy hour of the morning, it was not to the grand station but to one of the smaller ones dotted around the outskirts. The platform and the surrounding streets were heaving, soldiers and workmen busying themselves in the pre-dawn gloom. Locomotives stood clanking and huffing in all the sidings, their steam filling the dark air.

The young man and the man with the beard helped Ed down onto the platform, the banker shaking his hand vigorously one last time. They formed a weird honour guard as he hobbled towards the station entrance, only dispersing once Psiren shooed them away with a firm ‘thank you, Mr Elric will be fine from here.’ The banker left his card and the young man left his phone number. Ed seized both, fearing what his companion would do with them if she got hold of them.

Smiling knowingly, Psiren adjusted the collar of his coat, for all the world like she was a parent fussing over a kid.

“Well, here we are. More eventful than I expected, I must admit.”

Ed shifted uncomfortably, fumbling with his crutch. “Funny.”

“I should probably be annoyed on behalf of my fellow thief but I don’t approve of wanton violence. Besides . . .” Her fingers found her buttons again. “We must do that again some time.”

Ed did not explain how that was never going to happen. Ever. Instead, he suddenly remembered the pendant she’d tied round his wrist.

“No, keep it,” she said when he tried to offer it back, “It’ll remind you of what you owe me.”

An awkward silence followed. Or at least, it was awkward for Ed. Psiren’s smug little smirk never faded. He was just working out how to tell her to get lost when someone shouted. It was a wordless explosion of a shout, more a whoop of triumph and disbelief than anything else.

A blonde man in military blue bounded up the entrance ramp, waving frantically. A shorted, fatter man was close on his heels, clearly astonished at how fast the first man was going. Ed had just enough time to recognise them before Psiren’s face slid up so close to his that he could smell the mint on her breath. “Looks like your ride’s here. Good luck finding your brother. Don’t forget to get better. I’ll see you around.”

He thought she was about to try and kiss him. She didn’t. Instead, she spun around and walked away, calmly, without hurry. She paused only to toss him one last perfect smile over her shoulder and offer the same to the running soldier, who skidded to a stop looking dumbfounded.

Then she was gone, disappearing into the twilight.

Jean Havoc stared after her, shook himself, then recommenced his run towards Ed, narrowly avoiding being flattened by Breda. “Ed? That _is_ you, right?” He sounded as though he hardly dared believe it.

Ed nodded, half-distracted by a lingering hint of mint. Havoc whooped again and almost punched the air. Ed couldn’t remember ever seeing him so excited.

“Chalk another one up to Mustang – he said it couldn’t be anyone else!”

 _That_ got Ed’s attention. All thoughts of Psiren evaporated. “Mustang’s alive?”

“Alive and kicking,” Havoc confirmed excitedly, “Came back and took over like he’d never been gone – him and Hawkeye had us combing the country for you and Al before we knew what was happening! When we got the report about an alchemist stopping a robbery, he slammed down his coffee cup, said, ‘that’s him,’ and sent us out here. I thought he must have lost it but –”

“Have you heard anything about Al?” Ed demanded, already hobbling towards the ramp.

“Not yet,” Breda told him, having executed a clumsy about-face, “But he’s got the whole country on alert for him!”

Ed kept asking questions all the way to the staff car, not giving Havoc or Breda any chance to ask any in return. The pain in his stumps was forgotten, exhaustion swept away by familiar surroundings and familiar people.

Mustang was alive, Hawkeye was alive, he was sitting in the back of a car being driven by Havoc, with Central flying past the windows and everyone was looking for Al and Noah . . .

All at once, everything seemed that little bit less impossible.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Ed . . . walks into these things even when he can't walk. It's impressive.  
> \- This is, of course, a deliberate call back to the first time Ed and Al travelled to Central.  
> \- More on what Mustang and Hawkeye have been up to on Monday . . .


	5. Lines in Shifting Sands

Roy Mustang was no stranger to waking up in unusual places.

To be completely fair, he was equally well acquainted with falling asleep in unusual places. His reputation aside, his time on campaign had taught him that you sleep where and when you can. For a while, he had been quite used to bedding down in old warehouses, in dingy caves, even in ruined temples. The sand got everywhere.

But he had never woken up face down in a stone circle before.

“Owww . . .” His fingers spasmed a couple of times before he got them under control and lifted them to clutch at his head. It hurt, rather a lot, and the touch did not really help. On the plus side, he still had his hair. “Urrrgh . . .” At some point, he realised, he would probably have to do more than make protesting noises at the general unfairness of the universe. That had never solved his hangovers in the past and was unlikely to do so this time, especially given that it was not really a hangover at all, more the aftershocks of being shunted between universes by a bunch of super-powered inhuman Gatekeepers –

The rush of memories did more to get him moving than most mugs of coffee or hairs of the dog ever had.

He pushed himself up, taking in the clearing, the encircling trees and the half-ring of stones in a single sweeping glance. It took him a couple of moments longer to realise that the dark band cutting across the ground some way in front of him was a chasm. Cautiously, he approached the edge and looked down. It was probably not too far to jump, if it came to that, but it was deep, very deep in fact. He couldn’t see the bottom, just a yawning black emptiness going down and down and . . .

“Careful sir.”

Someone pulled him back as he swayed forwards, overcome by a sudden head-rush. Dizzily, he stumbled and collapsed, ending up sitting on the ground with a comically baffled expression plastered across his face.

Hawkeye stepped into his field of vision, looking concerned. “Sir? Can you hear me?”

“All three of you,” he confirmed, putting his head in his hands, “Where are we?”

“I don’t know.” She knelt beside him. “I haven’t had time to find higher ground yet.”

“Terrific. So we don’t actually know if we’re even in the right world?”

“I think it might be wise to assume we are until we find otherwise, sir.”

“I think you’re probably right.” Mustang lifted his head and took a deep breath, rubbing at his temples. “I take it you don’t feel nearly as bad as I do right now.”

“I was a little unsteady at first,” she admitted, “but it soon passed. It’ll probably be the same for you.”

“Oh good. I wouldn’t like to think you had some sort of natural advantage over me in this situation.”

“I _was_ less badly injured, sir.”

“Oh. Yes.”

He looked down at himself properly for the first time since he had regained consciousness. His arms and chest were, under the remains of a black jacket, criss-crossed with improvised bandages. None of the cuts and bruises exactly hurt any more but there was a definite and persistent ache. “Hmm.”

For her part, Hawkeye was still wearing the clothes she’d been wearing when they first hiked up to the Gatekeeper’s cave. How long ago had that been? It could only have been days but it felt like weeks. Months, even. She still looked beautiful, of course. _How_ did she do that?

“I think there’s a stream towards the west, sir. We both need water.”

“Agreed.” More carefully this time, Mustang got to his feet. Hawkeye offered an arm to support him but he waved it away. He was an officer of the Amestrian Military. He was damn well going to stand up on his own.

All the same, Hawkeye’s presence at his elbow was reassuring. She would catch him if he fell – which he _was not going to do_ – and that made him feel better. Not to mention less worried about ending up with his nose in the grass.

He was saved from contemplating exactly how good an analogy the situation was for his normal life when they reached the stream and he was able to plunge his head into it. His hatred of water notwithstanding, it felt glorious. Cupping his hands, he lifted a measure to his lips. The taste was delicious. He hadn’t quite realised how parched he was. From her identical reaction to the glittering trickle, Hawkeye hadn’t either.

They ended up next to one another, greedily lapping up water like a pair of exhausted wild cats. If anyone had seen them, they would probably have thought they were tramps or else madmen. Their hair was wild and unkempt, their clothes ragged and filthy, their faces smeared with dust and mud. And for some reason, as one, they broke into inane, lunatic grins. Or at least Mustang did. He doubted she had ever done anything inane in her entire life.

"Normally it’s only dogs that make you smile like that.” He could hardly believe his ears. Since when had Riza Hawkeye made unguarded statements like that?

Come to that, since when had the Flame Alchemist been so happy to be soaked through?

She looked away, obviously embarrassed.

He decided to correct that immediately. “Normally I haven’t had the stuffing kicked out of me three days in a row. Normally you haven’t had to pull me out of hell to get me to a mountain stream. Normally we’re not alone in the middle of nowhere.”

Which was obviously going too far. She rose immediately, dusting herself down. “We should find out where we are and how long it will take us to get back to civilisation. And we need to find the others. They clearly didn’t arrive with us.”

Mustang sobered fast, the image of how they had been scattered by the monsters that filled the gap between worlds becoming all too vivid. “Right.” He eyed their surroundings. “Uphill?”

“Yes. There seems to be some sort of outcropping up there. It might be a good vantage point.”

He agreed and they set off in mutual silence. The mood was notably less euphoric. As ever, she had effortlessly brought him crashing down to earth.

The wooded rise gave way to a thin ridge, a half-way step up a hill that was nearly a small mountain. Trees spread out in all directions, a carpet of greenery that swept up and down the slope, until it cut off abruptly. At the water line. “An island?” Mustang inquired, double-checking he was seeing with one eye what Hawkeye was seeing with two.

“Looks like it, sir. In a lake, I think.” She shaded her eyes, scanning the distant shore. “Quite a big one.”

He pointed. “Is that smoke over there?”

“Yes sir. A town?”

“Excellent.” Mustang rubbed his hands. “We’ll go down to the beach, I’ll transmute us a boat and we’ll be over there by lunch time.”

“That is assuming that you can use alchemy,” Hawkeye pointed out.

“Ah.” Which was a good point. He arched his eyebrow. “Well, there’s an easy way to find out.” Picking up a stick, he scraped a rough circle in the dirt and filled it with one of the most basic alchemic formulae he could remember. It might even have been the first transmutation circle he had ever learnt. Throwing the stick away, he braced himself, then hesitated. “You might want to take a step back. Just in case.” Although, he added silently, that’s probably just me being over-cautious. I mean, it’s not as if a tiny reaction like this is going to explode or anything, is it?

One brief but painful moment later, he was flat on his back with stars dancing in front of his eyes and what felt like a terminal case of pins and needles running up his arms.“Ow.” Which was less an agonised noise this time, more a resigned acknowledgement that even his inner voice could find its foot in its mouth on occasion.

“Are you all right?” Hawkeye hurried over to him, looking quite alarmed.

He waved in a manner that would have been dismissive if his hand hadn’t been trembling. “Oh, fine . . . fine . . . just . . . going to lie here a moment.”

“Very well sir.” Was that a smile? He couldn’t be sure.

“I think we may need to start a fire,” he said, clearing his throat, “If we build it up here, someone’s bound to notice and come take a look. Hmm. And there’s not a cloud in the sky. So we don’t have to worry about –”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Hawkeye ordered quickly.

“Why?” He thought about it. “Oh. Since when have you been superstitious?”

Her face said it all without her actually having to bother.

 

* * *

 

They got the fire going by mid-afternoon. It was perhaps fortunate that Mustang had such an affinity for starting them. Hawkeye, while she no slouch when it came to survival skills, knew mainly how to construct fires that emitted as little light and smoke as possible. Mustang, naturally, knew how to build them on exactly the reverse principle.

She left him to feed his creation – which he was obviously enjoying a little too much – and scouted the woods around their vantage point. There were several more clearings, though none quite as big as the one containing the chasm and the stone circle. She caught a glimpse of the shoreline from one, a surprisingly long beach. In another, she startled a couple of rabbits and cursed the fact that she didn’t have a knife on her. She still had the gun she had taken from the Chambers Institute but that wouldn’t be much use for skinning anything. If it became necessary, she could improvise but all the same, she rather hoped it didn’t come to that. Climbing back towards the ridge, she idly wondering if the Brigadier General had ever eaten rabbit that had been cooked in its skin.

She found him practically dancing around the fire. He was clearly having fun watching the dead branches crackle and splutter out of existence as he cast them into the flames. When she pointed out that they should probably conserve their supply of fuel, he briefly wore the kicked puppy expression she occasionally caught when she absently swatted a paper dart he had been especially proud of.

“We don’t know how long it will take someone to see it, sir,” she said, feeling the need to explain why she was cutting short his playtime.

He nodded and walked a little way down the slope, dropping onto a reasonably flat boulder. Tiredness settled over him disconcertingly quickly, drawing deep lines across his abruptly blank face. They made him look an awful lot older, emphasising the scars and the ruined eye.

“You’re right,” he croaked, voice cracking a little, “I’m not thinking straight.”

She could have told him that. He had been alternating between careless and manic since he had come round. Perhaps he had lost more blood than she had thought . . . and neither of them had eaten properly for a day, at least. “Here. I found these.” She pressed the hand-full of berries into his fingers. He looked doubtful. “Don’t worry, I’ve already eaten some. They’re perfectly safe.”

Still not entirely convinced, he nibbled one. “Urgh. You’re sure these are OK to eat?”

“Yes sir. One of the most common edible berries.”

“Yet no one serves them in restaurants. I wonder why.” Sarcasm aside, he did force himself to swallow all of them.

“We need to contact Central as soon as possible,” he said when he had finished, tone business-like, “Find out exactly what has been happening in our absence. I don’t imagine that the world nearly ending will have gone unnoticed. And we need to locate the Elrics before anyone else does. I’m not too worried about them being flung to the far corners of the country. They’ve had experience on the road – and they seem to be able to make allies of most of the people they meet. Oh. Expect I’m forgetting. Fullmetal’s auto-mail. It was wrecked. He’ll have a hard time of it. But he’ll survive.” Mustang’s lips twitched. “Because he always does. But that means we’ll need to locate Miss Rockbell as soon as possible. No one knows Fullmetal’s medical history quite like she does.”

“She’s in Rush Valley the last I heard,” Hawkeye put in.

“Excellent, she should be easy to contact then. Actually, the first thing we need to do is work out how long we’ve been gone. We may have ‘officially’ been on a highly sensitive mission but I think just getting General Grumman to agree to give the nod for that used up all the slack he was prepared to cut me for the next decade.”

“You did tell him it might have a connection to the Elrics, sir.”

“I told him it was connected to their _work_. Turning up and organising a search for a couple of infant prodigies who have been very definitely dead for the last two years is going to be damn difficult to explain. And I don’t really want to think about what will happen if someone else finds them first,” he added, very obviously thinking about just that, “They’re not precisely among the Military Command’s top five alchemists.”

“General Grumman wouldn’t see them hurt, sir.”

“Of course he wouldn’t. But he’d use them for political gain. He’s too wily not to know how useful it would be to have them close by. I don’t want that happening to them.” There was a new grimness in his tone. “Not again. Not after everything that’s happened.”

“No sir.”

“I thought I told you to stop calling me sir until we were back in Central?”

The shift in topic caught her unaware. He still sounded deadly serious but was now looking straight at her, accusing and irritated. “I . . .” She couldn’t think what to say for a heartbeat. “Under the circumstances, I thought it would be more appropriate –”

“We’re trapped on a deserted island miles from civilisation – well, _a_ mile from it – on our own, having just returned from what I can only describe as an ‘adventure’, during which we took part in a battle against a mad alchemist from another world who threatened to destroy two universes in the company of people who have been officially dead and buried for the better part of three years. You’ll forgive me if I think can't think of a more appropriate time for informality in recent history.”

There was no reply to that. Damn him, but he was good at coming out with things you couldn’t say anything back to when he wanted. So she didn’t. “You should gather more wood, sir,” she said, indicating the beacon, “We’ll need to stoke the fire in a while. I’ll try and gather more food.”

All the way down the hill, she could sense his eye on her back but he said nothing until she was almost past the tree line. The words drifted down, seemingly coming from further off than was possible, a single retort devoid of any real force. “Try and find some tastier berries this time.”

 

* * *

 

“When we get home,” Mustang declared, “I am going to book a table at the best restaurant in Central. I am going to arrive at seven and leave at eleven and during that time I am going to order the biggest meal one man can possibly eat, accompanied by the best champagne available.” He had just finished another helping of The Berries, accompanied by a particularly tasteless variety of nut and was beginning to daydream about well-cooked steak. As an attempt to lighten the mood, however, his declaration fell flat at the first hurdle. Hawkeye said nothing, merely raised an eyebrow and went back to using a flat stone to roughly sharpen a branch. The beacon belched light and heat behind them, smoke coiling up into the darkening sky.

They had spent the previous hours going over Operation: Elric Hunt and Project: Save Our Careers. Their to-do list stretched out in the dirt before them, having grown preposterously long as he kept thinking up new ways in which the next few months could go horribly wrong. By the time everything was over, he would probably have used up every favour he was owed from the Southern Pass to Briggs. But it would be worth it if it all went to plan. He would finally have managed to set one thing right.

Which was more than could be said for his relations – he didn’t dare think of it as ‘a relationship’ – with Hawkeye. She had more or less point-blank refused to call him anything but sir. If he pressed the point, he was certain she would have stonewalled him until he gave up. He understood her thinking, that they were two military officers subsisting in the wilderness for who knew how long (although he was sure whoever lived across the water couldn’t be _that_ blind) and that meant that proper protocol could mean the difference between life and death. But for heaven’s sake, they had been through so much in the last . . . whatever that he couldn’t believe that her calling him Roy would make all that much difference.

But then when had she ever called him that? She hadn’t the first time he’d asked, on that hike . . . however long ago, so why he expected her to give in now was beyond him. Although . . .

He did dimly recall her shouting his name at him once. It nagged at the edge of his awareness, a snatch of memory without context. Oh, well. At least she was there with him. If that was all he was getting, he had to accept it.

Anger bubbled up inside him as he trudged over to the beacon, to get a torch to light the smaller fire he’d built to keep them more comfortably warm. No, damn it all, why did he have to accept it? What gave her the right to keep her distance after everything they’d been through together? Not just the other universe insanity, but everything that had come before. Viciously, he pulled a flaming bow free of the bonfire. He had saved her life and she, his more times than he wanted to count. She had always been there, always made sure he did what he needed to do. Everyone knew how the power lay between them, hell, most people seemed to work it out in minutes. But always, always, _always_ the patronising ‘yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir.’ It wasn’t fair! To keep the sham up in public was one thing but in private, between the two of them and _just_ the two of them? It was an insult! Well, no more! He was going to march back down there and he was damn well going to _order_ her to call him Roy. And what’s more, he was going to ask her to come to dinner with him. And if she refused, well, then – then – he would just have to knock her over the head, drag her down to the restaurant and tie her to the chair opposite him. And she would enjoy the meal or – why was his nose itching?

 _Because_ , a voice at the back of his mind told him, nasty and insinuating, _the last time you asked her out to anything, she nearly broke it_.

And why had she done that? He froze, the torch still burning merrily away in his hand. Because he’d made a stupid, arrogant mistake and reminded her of why she should, by rights, hate his guts. And he _still hadn’t apologised_. The last time he’d tried, she had told him it wasn’t the time or place for that conversation and she’d been right (naturally).

His resolve returned with a vengeance. Right. Now was going to be the time and place whether she liked it or not. He spun on his heel and began mentally composing what he was going to say. _Captain Hawkeye, I would like to apologise for the way I have treated you in the past, I can only promise that in the future, I shall endeavour to ensure that . . ._

 

* * *

 

Mustang lit the fire and sat down next to her, prodding and poking the conflagration until it behaved itself. Hawkeye had, by then, finished sharpening the stave and was turning it over and over in her hands, contemplating its stabbing potential.

“I don’t deserve you.”

Her head snapped up. From his expression, that wasn’t what he had meant to say. For half a second, his mouth hung open, while the words he had just uttered ran in through his ears and kicked his brain. Then he started spluttering, trying to cover up the lapse. “I mean . . . that is to say . . . I . . .” His shoulders slumped and he gave up. “I mean, I don’t deserve you,” he repeated, ruefully, “Never have, never will.”

With a soft, nervous laugh, he bit his knuckle and stared into the fire. She was too stunned to reply.

“You’ve been there for me so many times and I’ve been thoroughly ungrateful, utterly selfish and unforgivably arrogant. You have stood by me when every shred of decency in you must have been screaming at you to leave me to burn in my own inferno and I have never even paid you the complement of telling you outright how beautiful you are.”

“Sir –” she began, trying to stem the tide before it got totally out of control but he cut across her sharply.

“Captan Hawkeye, I am in the middle of making a complete fool of myself and I am ordering you not to interrupt until I have finished the job.” He waited a second then ploughed on. “I have committed some of the most appalling crimes a man can commit and I have aided in the most appalling atrocities a state can perpetrate. You have been fiercely loyal to me throughout. I have taken your support for granted on more occasions than I can count. Worse, I have neglected my duty more than once. When you, when everyone needed me the most, I abandoned you and went to wallow in self-pity. I preferred to hide away rather than look you in the eye and thank you for saving my life, because I was too wrapped up in myself to think that you had done anything worthwhile. I do not deserve you. You do not deserve to have had to put up with me. I am truly, honestly sorry for everything I have put you through. I think you are beautiful beyond measure. And my last request is that you on no account let Edward Elric write my epitaph. ‘You Bastard’ may sum me up fairly adequately but it is still technically inaccurate and I will not have my parents’ memory insulted.”

At that, he ran out of steam and lapsed into silence, watching her warily. She turned the stave over in her hands once and once again. And then burst out laughing.

By any sane standard, it was completely the wrong reaction. But there was nothing sane about their situation and she was soon doubled over, laughing as she hadn’t done for years, laughing until her eyes began to spark with tears. She just couldn’t help it. It was so ridiculous. So absurd. He sounded so earnest, so preposterously self-flagellating. The man who'd gone in single-handedly to fight a monster to avenge a fallen friend. The man who'd stopped riots without hurting a soul. The man who'd protected the people under his command at the expense of his personal safety and public reputation. The man who'd spent _years_ trying to atone for crimes that were committed in the midst of an insane war that had turned lesser people into monsters. The man who had dragged himself out of his grief time after time to save lives and try to make things better. _This_ was the man who felt he needed to apologise to her for being unthinking, unfeeling and uncaring.

If nothing else, she thought, as she got a grip and calmed the laughter down to a hiccup, she had thrown him as much as he had thrown her. He looked as if he expected the sky to drop on his head at any second.

 

* * *

 

She shook her head wordlessly for a while, which was hardly better than laughing at him. His guts were knotted with mortification. He hadn’t meant for it to all come tumbling out but once he’d taken that first misstep, he hadn’t been able to stop. And now it was all there, out in the open. Years of carefully edging around the point brought to an end with a single breath.

What had he done?

“Why haven’t you said something before?” She asked the question softly, not with any indignation but with genuine curiosity, tasting the words cautiously as she spoke.

He held up his hands. “Because you were a lieutenant and I was a colonel. Because you’re a captain and I’m a brigadier.”

“Rules and regulations?”

“Yes. No. Yes. You’d hate me if I broke them. You hate it when I’m unprofessional.”

“True,” she agreed.

“And . . . you’re always so professional. So unflappable. So competent. You’d never have stood me saying things like that to you.”

“Also true.”

“And . . . and now I have.”

“Yes.”

The air hung heavy between them. The fires crackled and popped. He hardly dared to breathe.

“You’re not the only one who could have been unprofessional.” She wasn’t looking at him. The firelight caught in her eyes and set them alight. “After you came out of the Fuhrer’s mansion, after you . . . I . . . cried. For you.” Was he imagining her cheeks turning red? He had to be.

“Oh.” And that was all he could say.

“So what do we do now?” she asked, crossing her arms and leaning against the trunk of a tree.

He shook his head helplessly. “We . . . we could retire . . . I’m sure I could make a living as an independent alchemist and you could . . . uh . . . teach.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Teach?”

“You’d make a good teacher,” he told her.

“Really.”

“I think so, yes.”

“I see. How long exactly have you had this particular fantasy?”

“What?!” How did he not see the holes he was digging until he hit the bottom? He swore he wouldn’t have got so flustered with anyone but her. “I didn’t – I mean . . . you’re laughing at me again.”

She smiled. “A little.”

“Well then . . .” He tried again, if only so that things didn’t fall quiet. “I don’t know . . . you could be a dog trainer or – huh.” He stopped. “That’s not any better, is it?”

“Worse. And it would never happen, either way. You’d never leave the military willingly.”

“I would for you,” he said, with absolute honesty.

“No,” she whispered, “You wouldn’t.”

This time, there was no escaping the silence. And yet nothing seemed real. They couldn’t possibly have just said the things they had. It broke every rule of how they were supposed to act around one another. But it had happened. And neither of them was naïve enough to think that they could just forget it.

“It wouldn’t be much of a surprise if we . . .” She trailed off. “Most of Central knows your reputation.”

“I don’t want you to be . . . be . . .” He couldn’t finish. “I don’t want that.”

“It would be dangerous. Too dangerous. We can’t afford to let things become . . .”

“Complicated,” he completed, then corrected himself, “More complicated.”

“Exactly.”

“So that’s it?” he asked.

“Yes.”

With a finger, he drew a single, long, mostly straight line in the mud between them. She glanced at it quizzically. “You on your side,” he explained, “Me on mine.”

They looked at it for a while, as embers danced up into the darkness. It would be so easy to rub that line out, he thought, ridiculously easy. All they had to do was reach out. But neither of them was going to. Maybe they never would. But maybe . . . maybe admitting that it was there, that they could, one day, rub it out . . . maybe that was enough.

Maybe.

“We need to sleep”, Hawkeye said, stabbing her stave into the ground next to her.

Mustang nodded again. “Yes, we do. I should stoke up the beacon first.”

“No.” She held up a hand before he could stand. “I’ll do it. I should take first watch anyway. You need rest more than I do right now.” She rose, but made no move to leave. A shadow crossed her eyes. “I'm . . . I am sorry I hit you.”

He blinked at her, then snorted dismissively. “You had every reason to.”

“It was still unacceptable. And I want to apologise.”

“Fine. As long as you let me apologise for leaving you behind in the middle of a battle. For which I am truly sorry. I assure you it will not happen again.”

Hawkeye's lips twitched. “Very well.”

“Then apology accepted. And as you insist, I'll try and get some sleep . . . just make sure you _do_ wake me up. I’m not going to let you stay up all night because I’ve got a few more scratches.”

“As long as you get _some_ rest, sir, I’ll be happy.” She started off up the hill.

The flames rose higher. Above, the stars began to come out.


	6. Organised Chaos

Sig Curtis was in habit of taking morning walks on the lake’s edge. He had never gotten out of the routine that his wife had set. But that particular morning, it was the thin column of smoke rising uncertainly above the woods that brought him down to the jetty to scowl out towards the island. He hadn’t been sure when he caught a glimpse of a light the night before but now he was certain.

The people of Dublith had not officially declared Yok Island off limits after Izumi’s death. But there had been the unspoken agreement that it would have been a kind of sacrilege to let tourists trample all over it. Day trippers and ornithologists were politely steered away from the idea, put off through various inventive means. The little wooded mountain was left to itself, to stand as an unacknowledged shrine to a woman the whole town had loved and respected.

And now someone had lit a fire over there.

It took Sig barely fifteen minutes to untie the boat, row it across the lake and beach it on the island. In that time, his mood had gone from dark to black. He was not a man given to violence. Despite his size and rather fearsome appearance, he maintained an even temper through choice. He didn’t like feeling angry and took pains to avoid it. But the smoke coiling insolently from the top of the island was too grave an insult. He stalked swiftly uphill with every intention of flinging those responsible out into the middle of the lake and making them swim home.

He moved as carefully as his fury would allow, determined that whoever it was would not know he was coming until he had them by the neck. The clearing around the stone circle was empty but footprints told him it hadn’t been yesterday. Anger growing, he skirted the chasm and kept going.

The first thing he saw when he came onto the ridge was the bonfire. It was hard to miss, a great mass of charred wood and ash, still smouldering but clearly close to death. Brow set in deep frown, Sig advanced out from under the trees, fists clenched.

He stopped.

All the anger drained away, leaving only an aching emptiness. The man and the woman had clearly fallen asleep next to one another, leaning against the same tree, in front of a smaller fire that had long ago gone out. At some point in the night, it looked as though the man had slid sideways, until his head rested on the woman’s shoulder. She had reacted, perhaps unconsciously, by leaning into him, shifting so that they were propping each other up. Their faces were relaxed as they slept, leaving them both looking extraordinarily content, even the man, who bore a mass of scars across his left eye.

Izumi would have woken them up by splitting the ground under them. Remembering how she used to curl up against his side, Sig could not bring himself to do anything.

 

* * *

 

The snap of a twig brought Hawkeye awake with a jolt.

Staying as still as possible and trying to breathe easily, she kept her eyes closed and listened. Birds were singing all around, a dawn chorus that must have come from all across the island. A faint breeze was setting the leaves rustling, blowing the smell of smoke and embers into her face. And there was something pressing down on her shoulder and against her cheek, something that felt warm and hairy.

She tightened her grip on the gun in her lap and carefully opened her eyes a crack. The warm, hairy thing was black and tousled and, after an instant’s confusion, familiar. Her gaze drifted from the general’s head and swept the ridge, searching for whatever it was that had woken her.

“Don’t worry.” A deep, rumbling voice, the kind a mountain would have. “You’re safe.”

Since it was obviously redundant to feign sleep any longer and since keeping her eyes lidded would only impede her fighting ability, Hawkeye opened them fully.

The man suited his voice. He _was_ a mountain, massive and solidly built, with muscles that might have been big enough to make even Alexander Armstrong look svelte. Almost. His great black beard only added to his formidable appearance. Still, he was sitting there calmly enough, watching them from across the ashes of their camp fire. And there was something familiar about him. Where had she seen him before . . . ?

“What are you doing here?” he asked. The question implied that they had no right to be there, though it was not as heated as it could have been.

“We . . . ended up here by accident,” she told him.

Mustang stirred and shifted, providing a momentarily distraction. Swiftly, on instinct, Hawkeye decided to trust to a half-remembered recollection. “We know the Elric brothers.”

Nothing changed in the big man’s appearance and he did not respond.

“Hunnhhh? Oh.” The Flame Alchemist went from leaning against Hawkeye's shoulder to sitting bolt upright half a foot away. She wasn’t sure if that was because he’d seen the man opposite or because he’d realised exactly where he had laid his head. He glanced sideways at her, looking for a sign as to what the situation was. She loosened her grip on the gun and let it rest where it was.

“Good morning,” Mustang said brightly, addressing the giant, “Mr Curtis, isn’t it?”

The man inclined his great head and Hawkeye’s memory finally kicked into gear. She hadn’t gone with the General when he went to pay his respects to the Elric’s teacher but had seen the Military’s files on her. She should have recognised the woman’s husband immediately.

“You probably don’t recognise me like this,” Mustang went on, gesturing at his scars and clothes, “I’m –”

“I know who you are.”

“Of course. Yes. Well, Mr Curtis. As you can see, we’ve had a bit of transport trouble. I assume if you’re here, we must be on the island near Dublith. Would it be too much trouble to ask you to take us with you when you row back?”

“I can take you,” Curtis rumbled, laying the flat of one hand on his knee and fixing Hawkeye with a stare, “You said you _know_ the Elric brothers.”

“I did.”

“And,” Mustang added, “if they were as lucky as us, that’s still the right tense.”

 

* * *

 

There was a spring in Mustang’s step as he climbed out of the boat. He felt reinvigorated. Proper, decent, healthy sleep was a wonderful thing. More wonderful when conducted in a proper bed but he’d worked off most of the stiffness on the way down to the island’s beach. He turned to offer Hawkeye a hand up but she was already on the jetty. Ah, well. “Now, first order of business: we need to contact the nearest Military headquarters. Mr Curtis, may we use your phone? Thank you. Then, once we have established that we’re still alive and well, we need to return to Central and get the search under way.”

The grumbling of his stomach punctured his exuberance rather neatly. “Ah. Err . . .”

Curtis simply waved one platter of a hand and began to walk towards the town. Hawkeye moved to stand at Mustang’s shoulder. “We need to find out how long we’ve been gone,” she reminded him.

“We do,” he agreed, “Let’s hope he’s got a calendar in his kitchen.” He was grateful when she didn’t point out that they could just have asked. His only real excuse for not doing so was not wanting to sound like a moron twice in twenty-four hours.

 

* * *

 

They had been gone for over a month. In that time, Dublith had suffered earthquakes that brought several buildings and the phone lines down, followed by a heat wave that, while not exactly unseasonable, was unusually intense. According to the newspapers that Curtis gave them alongside a breakfast of ham and eggs, most of the country had been similarly affected. The articles were vague – mainly because most lines of communication had been seriously impeded – but they fairly consistently talked about wide-scale damage due to earth movement and freak weather conditions.

Swallowing a last piece of egg, Hawkeye pointed to the headline of the most recent paper. “If the quakes were strong enough to break open the hidden city, the damage in Central would have been terrible. And if alchemy isn’t possible at the moment . . .”

Mustang, half way through a mouthful of meat, wrinkled his nose. A full scale mobilisation to locate the Elrics was looking less and less plausible. He put down his knife and fork and got up. “I’ll ring South Command now,” he said, barely pausing for a nod of permission from Curtis, “There’s no point keeping ourselves in the dark.”

The call was answered on the tenth ring, by someone who sounded as though they had been answering phones all night. “ _South Command_ ,” the voice rasped, “ _What extension –_ ”

“This is Brigadier General Mustang. Emergency code 3, Mary had 74 black sheep. Get me your commanding officer.”

“ _Yessir_ ,” the man replied, with a mixture of awe and the relief that most soldiers felt at being able to shunt something important upstairs, “ _Connecting you now_.” The phone went _click_.

“ _Mustang?_ ” a much deeper, fruitier voice asked incredulously, “ _What the devil do you want?_ ”

“Major General de Havilland,” Mustang greeted him, pleasantly surprised at recognising the new speaker, “Good morning, sir.”

“ _Never mind the blasted good morning, what the blazes are you doing calling me up at this hour in the middle of a national crisis. Or did you cause it?_ ”

“Ah, no sir. As it happens, I was involved in a mission intended to prevent the disaster being worse than it was.”

“ _Hm. Good to see you performing to your usual level of efficiency when it comes to collateral damage. Now what is it that you_ want _? I’m a busy man._ ”

“Yes sir. I’m afraid one of my subordinates and myself are presently stranded in the town of Dublith, some way north of –”

“ _I know where Dublith is, blast you._ ” A sound of disgust travelled down the line. “ _I suppose you want me to buy a ticket back to Central for you. First class, of course?_ ”

“Ah, actually sir, I was rather hoping that you could just send someone up here with a couple of spare uniforms and the current reports. We’ll be making our way back to Central, of course, but the sooner we know the full situation . . . I appreciate how busy you must be but if it is possible –”

“ _All right, spare me the boot licking. It doesn’t become a_ Brigadier _General any more than it did a Colonel._ ” Another sound, this one more exasperated. “ _Look, there’s a mail train that should pass through Dublith in an hour or so. Get on it and be thankful that you landed in a town connected to about the only blasted intact stretch of train track in the whole blasted country. I’ll make sure they pack some clothes for you. You can read the latest reports for yourself._ ”

“Thank you sir, that’s more than I could have hoped for.”

A snort this time, loud and derisive. “ _Save it, Mustang, this makes us even. And blow your horrible luck if they make you clear this mess up on your own._ ”

The phone went dead.

 

* * *

 

“Why did I agree to promotion?” Havoc moaned, pressing his forehead against the surface of his desk, “I must have been crazy!”

“You said that it was about time they recognised your natural talent and gave you something better to do than drive General Mustang's ass around the place,” Falman replied, instantly.

“We’ve been waiting for it to come back and bite you,” Breda smirked.

“I hate you all,” Havoc mumbled, groping blindly for something to throw. He found only one of the large stacks of files that had been gradually covering every available surface for the last few days. With a yelp, he sprang forward, trying to catch the cascade of manilla envelopes and succeeding in dislodging two more piles.

Surveying the mess with a groan, he flopped back into his chair. Falman hid his mouth behind a sheaf of papers. Breda grinned without pretending to hide it. Havoc glared at them. “Watch it or I’ll get _me_ dismissed on corruption charges and they can fast track _your_ promotions. Now.” He gave a regal flick of his hand. “Clear this mess up, _lieutenants_.”

The click of the door opening covered Breda’s grumbled response. Fuery, his face hidden up to his glasses by the boxes he was carrying, edged into the room, closely followed by the young scarecrow of a lieutenant who had become attached to the office via the sort of esoteric game of musical chairs that naturally followed large scale military confusion. It rapidly became something of a joke that Dakota and the master sergeant were two copies of the same man, one who had been stretched, the other squashed. All they had to do was find a black-haired, normal-sighted warrant officer of medium height and they would have the complete set.

Seriously though, Havoc thought as he watched the men trying to find space for the new files, they could do with someone else of lower rank. Having three second lieutenants about the place, even with a definite chain of seniority, made Fuery’s life very busy. Perhaps they should rope in Bloch from Investigations . . . except he’d be useless if they didn’t get Ross as well . . . come to that, a new First Lieutenant might be just the thing to keep order. Of course, they’d need a bigger office first . . .

“ _Phew_. Who’d have thought the General would have so many files?” Fuery’s exclamation brought Havoc out of his managerial imaginings.

Dakota adjusted his half-moon spectacles. “He _is_ an important State official. He’s expected to have a lot of information at his fingertips.”

“Yeah.” Breda was on the floor, throwing folders together into rough piles. “And _we’re_ expected to bring it all here, sort it out and stack it all up, all so we can carry it back, sort it out _again_ and put it back where it was before most of HQ fell down. Again.”

Havoc shrugged. “Hey, it’s all stuff the General wanted kept close. It’s gotta be important.”

“Important? I can’t understand most of it!”

“Does that surprise anyone?” Falman inquired tartly, meticulously rearranging the files he had picked up.

Fuery frowned, peering into the box he’d just opened. “I don’t think I’ve got clearance to look in most of these.”

“Throw ‘em over here then.” Havoc beckoned. “It’s probably not anything too secret though. They cleared out his safe before we got there.”

“Does anyone know what this is?” Dakota said, holding up a small black book he had just pulled out from amidst a heap of old newspaper reports.

There was an instant, awed hush as every other man in the room recognised it. “That’s never . . .” Breda began.

“It is,” Falman said.

“We _can’t_ ,” Fuery pleaded.

“We can,” Havoc declared, “I’ve wanted to get my hands on that thing for . . . ever.”

Dakota frowned at them, baffled. “Am I missing something, sir?”

“You’re kidding,” Havoc accused, incredulously, “You must have heard of Mustang’s black book.”

“Err – oh!” Dakota’s eyes widened and he held the book away from him as if suddenly realising it was made of dynamite. “I . . . always thought it would be thicker.”

“He’s got really small handwriting. Now quick, bring it over here!”

They clustered round Havoc’s desk, on which Dakota placed the black book with all due reverence. “We . . . probably shouldn’t open it, sir,” he pointed out with hesitant honesty.

“He’s right,” Fuery said plaintively, “The General would kill us.”

“And it’s probably booby-trapped,” was Falman’s sensible suggestion.

“Open it already!” was Breda’s.

Havoc took a pencil out of the desk drawer. With infinite care – and his comrade’s full support from somewhere behind the various bits of cover they’d just scattered behind – he lifted the cover with it. The book fell open. Nothing exploded. There was a collective sigh of relief.

Reconvening, with varying degrees of eagerness, they leaned over to look at the first page. It was covered in neat rows of tiny letters. “He put a contents page in his address-book?” Breda asked in amazement.

“If you had as many numbers as he does, so would you,” Havoc pointed out,” Sheesh, look at this. North, South, East, West, Central, ‘Dancing Partners’, ‘Good Time Girls’, ‘Grande Dames’ . . . ‘ _Widows_ ’? How the heck did he get all these?”

“You know, they say some alchemy can –”

“Not in front of Fuery, Breda.”

Dakota started to back away. “I should get on with the indexing . . .”

Fuery quickly copied him. “Yeah, guys, we _really_ shouldn’t be looking at this.”

“Oh, loosen up.” Breda leered closer. “Hey, you think any of these will actually be accurate anymore? I mean, with all the buildings collapsing and everything.”

“Dunno. Still, the names alone could be gold dust,” Havoc mused.

Fuery had, by then, backed so far he was at the door. The proximity to the exit delivered inspiration. “You know, I’ve just remembered something I was supposed to collect from down the corridor!” Without waiting for anyone to acknowledge the blatant lie, he stepped out, emitted a shrill squeak, wheeled and shot back inside fast enough to send several nearby papers fluttering into the air. Falman and Dakota, the two not completely engrossed in the book, stared at him as he did a remarkable impression of a landed fish. “ _The General_!” he managed in a strangled yelp.

Falman moved faster than any of them. Before Havoc and Breda had finished jumping guiltily away from their prize, he whipped it off the desk and broke the record for cross-office sprint, dropping it deftly back into the box it had come from. It had barely settled when the door swung open with enough force to shake the wall.

General Mustang, resplendent in a uniform two sizes too big and an eye-patch improvised from a couple of bandages, strode in on the scene of his subordinates doing their well-rehearsed ‘innocence personified’ act. Breda and Dakota were busily shuffling an improbable number of files back onto the edges of Havoc’s already overloaded desk while the captain himself studiously ran a pencil down the edge of a document that must have been an inch thick and Fuery strained to rearrange yet more folders on top of a filing cabinet that was taller than he was. The effect was spoiled somewhat by the way no one actually jumped when Mustang came in, with the exception of Falman, who rocketed to attention the instant the General crossed the threshold and so identified himself clearly as the most suspicious of the lot.

“General Mustang, sir!” Havoc cried, getting to his feet and saluting, “You’re back!”

Dakota and Fuery flew to attention as well, followed a couple of beats later by Breda. With the grace of a sedate landslip, the pile of papers near Havoc’s left elbow slumped and disappeared behind the desk.

Mustang raised his eyebrow. “I hope nobody signed for any of this.” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Fuery, get down to the communications room. I want all the most up-to-date information – military, police, medical – everything. Falman, find me a large scale map of the country and mark out the current situation. Havoc: I want a car on stand-by from now until I decide otherwise. You – whoever you are – I want coffee, black, on my desk in five minutes. Breda: find my desk.”

 

* * *

 

The office was swiftly transformed. The files were returned, haphazardly, to the boxes from whence they had come, which in turn were stacked roughly along the walls. The cleared tables were pushed together in the centre of the room and the map Falman had located and modified was spread over them, secured with pins that Hawkeye magicked up from somewhere. Fuery persuaded the communications section to part with several pieces of equipment and a radio set was soon perched precariously on top of a couple of the more stable stacks. Havoc put his head round the door to announce that a car was ready and waiting for whatever crisis the General was anticipating.

Mustang surveyed it all with a glow of satisfaction, his confidence in the people he had picked as his staff renewed. Even Dakota, who was most definitely there on sufferance, proved to be able to make a half-decent mug of coffee in record time, not to mention anticipate that everyone else would demand one. It was probably a risk to keep him in the loop but he studiously remained where they could all see him, transcribing the information Fuery was receiving onto the map, so for the moment that was a problem for later.

In fact, so far, the only hitch concerned Mustang’s desk. It transpired that, although it had been extracted from the mess that had been made of the Central Headquarters and transported to the Military’s temporary compound, it had then been placed in storage. Breda reported that it was trapped between a large cabinet from one of the Investigations offices and General Grumman’s chaise lounge. As a consequence, Mustang was forced to hijack Havoc’s, which suited him just fine.

“They’ve reconnected the telephone lines to the East City exchange,” Fuery stated, prompting Falman to hand Dakota a ruler so he could mark it out. The three lieutenants had taken joint charge of the map, splitting it between them in roughly equal sections. By then, it was probably as good a representation of the present state of the country as any available in the operations room.

Mustang leafed through the papers that Fuery had obtained from downstairs. No patients matching the Elric’s descriptions had turned up in any of the hospitals that remained open in the Central area, nor any matching that of the girl, Noah. There was the . . . _homunculus-man_ as well, but he wasn’t quite sure what he should be looking for in that case. Probably a patient whose appearances roughly matched Ed’s . . . oh, how he wasn’t looking forward to having to deal with that . . .

“So, what are we looking for, sir?” Breda made the question sound nonchalant but wasn’t quite fast enough to hide the short pencil when Mustang looked up. The others studiously looking at three entirely separate parts of the ceiling and Hawkeye's tired sigh told him all he needed to know.

He considered. In a brief conversation with Hawkeye, he'd decided that it would be best to keep quiet until directly challenged. So far, they had been lucky – probably because few people seemed to have actually noticed that they were back. De Havilland had somehow managed to provide them with spare passes in addition to the clothes, so there had been no fuss at the gates and the fact that his over-large uniform had the wrong insignia had confused the secretary on the entrance desk. And he doubted that anyone was monitoring the office. They all had far better things to do. But that wouldn’t last forever and really, things would go quicker if more than two people in the room knew exactly what was going on.

He waited for Havoc to return with a list of hospitals further afield and had him close the door. Then he cleared his throat. “The Elric brothers are alive,” he said quietly.

This pronouncement at first seemed to surprise no one except Dakota. Then mouths started falling open. “You mean – alive and _back in the country_?” Havoc asked, glancing at Hawkeye for confirmation.

“We believe so,” she acknowledged levelly. For once, Mustang let the need to defer to his aide to determine the validity of his words pass.

“Is that where you’ve been?” Fuery wondered, “Tracking them down?”

“Something like that,” Mustang agreed, “But we got separated on the way back and they could be anywhere. We need to find them. Fullmetal at least was badly injured. His auto-mail was wrecked in battle. So we’re looking for anything that will give us a lead.”

“It’s not just Edward and Alphonse,” Hawkeye added, “There are two more, a girl called Noah, who looks somewhat Ishbalan and another boy called Edward .. . who answers more or less to our Edward’s appearance except a little taller, thinner and without auto-mail of any kind.”

“This doesn’t leave this room,” Mustang finished, glaring pointedly at each of them in turn, lingering a little longer on the newcomer, “No one else is to find out what we are doing. I will personally immolate anyone who gives us away. With or without alchemy.”

The way Dakota gulped showed that he got the hint. He tentatively lifted a finger. “Err . . . sir . . . is there any way of narrowing the field of investigation?”

Breda nodded hearty agreement. “Yeah, it’s gonna be hard to cover the whole country at once, lookin’ for four people with everything the way it is.”

Mustang frowned. “There might be. Pay special attention to Central, East City, Resembool and Rush Valley – wait, do we have communication with Rush Valley yet?”

“Not phone-lines, sir,” Falman said, tapping the map, “The railway links are still intact though.”

“Of course they are. We passed through there on the way here.” Mustang rubbed his chin. “Well, keep an eye on it. Is something wrong, captain?”

Havoc had been busy goggling at him while he talked. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” he stammered, “You’re actually serious.”

Mustang took a deep breath. “Captain Havoc, I am standing in front of you in clothes that would be too big for Breda, having spent the night before last on a deserted island and most of yesterday and today on a glorified goods train on which they had never even heard of cushions. Before that, I was beaten within an inch of my life, held prisoner in less than idyllic surroundings, soaked to the bone and deprived of anything remotely resembling decent coffee. I have never been more serious in my life. Now get to work!”

As one man, they got.

 

* * *

 

It was Falman who brought the news.

They all worked through the night, taking shifts at the map, the radio and as message-runner. By the time the sky outside began to lighten, Havoc and Breda were snoring gently at the map table and Dakota kept nodding off and jerking awake as he pulled the headphones to the limit of their wire. Even Mustang, who had been scouring reports and lists virtually non-stop since his announcement with the intensity that only a trained alchemist could manage, was going glassy-eyed. Hawkeye could see him beginning to drift into deeper and deeper reveries as the infrequent swigs from his umpteenth cup of coffee had less and less effect,

She was on the verge of suggesting that he give in and go to sleep when Falman burst in, waving a piece of notepaper. The police had just phoned in an incident that might be of importance to the Military: a robbery in progress on a south-bound train terminating in Central had been foiled by a young man missing an arm and a leg. He had done so with alchemy. And the train was due within the hour.

The General practically snatched the paper from his hands. “It’s Fullmetal,” he said, slamming his mug down with a bang loud enough to shock his men to full wakefulness, “Havoc, Breda, get to the Farrier Hill station. Now!” The two of them nearly tripped over each other in their rush for the door. Mustang sprang from his chair. “Hawkeye, let the infirmary know that they’re about to receive a top-priority patient. Fuery, find the least crowded entrance to this place then go stand on the road and wave the car towards it when they get back. Dakota: more coffee. No, forget that. Tea. Hot, sweet, strong.” He paused, then strode to the door as well. “I am going to find a uniform that fits.”

Falman, left standing in the middle of a rapidly emptying room, coughed. “Sir . . . ? What should I do?”

Mustang tossed him a grin. “Don’t open the door to anyone who isn’t one of us.”

 

* * *

 

The master sergeant guarding the stores was understandably astonished when a ranking brigadier general strode casually in at just gone five in the morning and demanded a fresh uniform. Fortunately, he wasn’t too dumbstruck to show Mustang where he could find one. Sending the man away, he surveyed the racks that had been lined up at the end of the warehouse. The place looked to have been filled in a hurry and only half-sorted out later. Clothes, blankets, mattresses, all had been thrown together in the barest semblance of neatness. It took him over ten minutes to find both a jacket and trousers.

He changed quickly, not bothering with a new shirt. There didn’t seem much point when he could just bunch the current one up. He debated what to do with the discarded clothes. De Havilland _would_ make him pay if they didn’t get returned . . .

Someone yawned loudly, just behind him.

He turned and was amazed to see what he had taken to be just another pile of blankets heaped on a mattress standing up. It shook off layers as it advanced, revealing Military blue, a shock of grey hair, a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles and, finally, the full, not-exactly imposing figure of General Grumman. He yawned widely again. “When they told me the state you’d arrived in, I thought this would be the first place you would come.” There was an admonishing note in his voice. “But you kept me waiting so long I had to take a nap.”

Mustang, who couldn’t quite believe Grumman had been waiting there for him all that time, stiffened into a salute. “Sorry for that, sir.”

“Don’t worry, you’re here now,” Grumman said magnanimously, “Although you do look like you’re in something of a hurry.”

“I’m afraid I am, sir.”

“Oh my, what a pity. I suppose it’s something else to do with those two young alchemists you’re so fond of.” He smiled indulgently. “You should probably run along then. You can tell me all about it later.”

Mustang wondered if he should point out that the old man really ought to be acting surprised that the Elrics were alive. On the other hand, if they were in public, he probably would have been. Either way, the alchemist had to concede that the wily old buzzard had outmanoeuvred him. “Thank you, sir. I’ll be sure to brief you fully this afternoon.”

“Splendid! Shall we make it lunch time?”

“Whatever suits you, sir.”

“Lunch time it is then.” Grumman sat back down on the mattress and pulled the blankets back around him. “Well, off you go!”

“You’re . . . staying here?”

“I think so,” the general confirmed with another yawn, “It’s quite comfortable. They’ll wake me up in the morning.”

Mustang pitied whoever took charge of the stores for the day shift.

 

* * *

 

He strolled out into the courtyard that separated the warehouse from the administration block and stopped with his hands in his pockets. At the end of a short driveway, Fuery and a sentry were heaving a heavy iron gate open. Beyond them, Havoc’s car was growling impatiently, waiting to be let in. On cue, Hawkeye came round the corner of the building and hurried to his side, a stretcher party on her heels. From the other direction, Dakota approached at a more sedate pace, wary of spilling Mustang’s tea.

A drawn out creak announced the gate swinging aside. Its path clear, the car rattled through and up the drive, slewing to a stop in a spray of gravel. A familiar face glowered out through the back window as Breda leapt out to open the door.

Mustang titled his head back and looked at the sky. It was going to be a good day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- This chapter contains many of my favourite lines in this entire fic.  
> \- I kept Dakota around for no particular reason other than I felt like giving Havoc minions.  
> \- General De Havilland is a blatant expy but I'd be surprised if anyone reading this gets who of! (I have eclectic listening tastes . . .)


	7. Lost and Found

His arms wrapped tightly around Noah, Al tumbled and span through the brilliant nothingness between worlds. A thousand black hands clawed at them, shredding what was left of the Gatekeeper’s physical forms. Ahead, Ed was struggling to hold on to the other Edward, to stop him trying to flee. Suddenly the half-homunculus’ head dipped and Ed cried out. Edward slipped through his hand, flailing and catching his double a blow to the head as he went. The two figures flew apart, whirling end over end. General Mustang threw himself after Ed, Captain Hawkeye holding on to him for dear life. But the disturbance had disrupted everything and Al felt himself being lifted up by an invisible wave that came crashing down and scattered them all into shining oblivion –

The next things he knew, he was drowning in sand.

He didn’t realise what it was at first, aware only of being trapped and smothered. Then the great weight on his back shifted and he was able to force himself to his hands and knees. He broke the surface of the dune and filled his lungs with a great _whoosh_ of desert air.

The heat struck him immediately and he collapsed, panting.

His first thought, when he recovered from the initial shock was of Noah. If he had been buried, what had happened to her? Was she stuck deeper down? He scrambled about, fighting the sand every step of the way, until he was on his feet and could see his surroundings. They were desolate and at first glance, empty of human life. But then he caught sight of the elbow sticking up out of the desert some distance away.

Slipping and sliding, his heart in his mouth, he half-ran, half-crawled to her. How long had he been out? How long had she been there, face down in the sand? Relief flooded through him when she stirred at his touch, pushing herself up and gasping, deep brown eyes wide. “A-Al?”

“I’m here.” He put an arm around her. “We got through.”

She blinked at him, then shuddered and tried to look around. “The others . . . ?”

“I can’t see them,” Al told her.

He helped her stand and together, they searched the immediate area. And came up completely empty-handed. There was no sign that anybody else had ever been there. “They must have come through somewhere else,” Al decided.

There was no doubt that they had come through. They _had_ to have. It wasn’t just the horror of the thought that they might not. He’d seen them all disappear out of the tunnel of light. He was sure he had. Even as it had rippled and bucked, they had vanished. And that _had_ to mean that they had gotten through, all of them. If not . . . His jaw tightened. Twice, he’d tried to force the universe to give him the people he loved. The third time, he would get it right. “We need to get out of the sun,” he went on, painfully aware of it beating down on their backs.

“Do you know where we are?”

“I . . . no . . . it could be the Eastern Desert . . . I kind of hope it is. At least then we’re somewhere near home . . .”

“There’s nothing like shelter out here . . .”

“Maybe . . . we’ll try over the dunes – that way.” He squinted up at the sun then pointed in what he guessed to be west. “If we can’t find anything . . . ” The desire to say something reassuring was strong but it would have been a lie. “I’ll think of something,” he completed lamely.

Noah said nothing, mutely letting him take the lead.

The climb was not easy, even for Al. He may have spent much of his life travelling to and fro across a desert but that had been before two years in Germany. He was out of practice and a foot taller, not to mention a little overwhelmed by the sudden change in climates. It occurred to him, a little belatedly, that he should have tried to find the quarter-staff he had been holding when the Gatekeepers swept them out of the other world. He couldn’t remember letting go of it. Perhaps it had been lost in the void.

The sight of what lay on the other side of the dune drove that thought cleanly out of his mind.

“Ishbal . . .” He didn’t doubt that was where they were. The ruins were buried deeper now, giving the place an even more forsaken air, but even so, he recognised them. Noah’s gasp of shock told him that she did too, albeit second-hand.

“At least we know where we are,” Al said quietly, “If we head north, we should be able to reach Liore. At least . . . without any water, that’s going to be hard.”

“Aren’t there any wells nearby? I thought . . .” Noah frowned and touched her lips. “I thought...”

“No, you’re right. But we could go for days without running into one. The old routes might have changed . . . sandstorms might have covered them up . . .” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I could try and make a well with alchemy . . . I can remember seeing the Truth so . . . I should be able to do it without needing circles any more.” He shook his head. “But with everything that happened to the Gate . . . is that a good idea?”

“No . . . probably not,” she agreed hesitantly. She was still frowning, he noticed.

“The Ishbalans were given their old lands back,” he recalled suddenly, “I think that’s mostly south of here but I guess there could be settlements to the north too.”

“Either way, we should shelter here until it gets dark.”

He smiled at her and nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. We’ve got this far. We’ll find a way.”

Optimism swinging back up to full, he led the way towards the ruins.

 

* * *

 

They took refuge in the lee of a slice of broken wall, the shade hardly cool but much easier to bear than being directly in the sun. It was a shame, Al reflected, that they were dressed for crawling around in the dark and the wet of an unexpectedly torrential French summer. Dark trousers and shirts were murder in the heat. Oh, to have Ed’s utter imperviousness to temperature. It had to be a demonic power gained from a pact with ultimate evil but it would have been so very useful to be able to cross a desert in black leather without batting an eyelid. Admittedly, from what other people said, he always stunk to high heaven after a long journey but that seemed a small price to pay.

It was clearly harder on Noah. She had collapsed against the wall, eyes half-closed, mouth a little open, and hadn’t said a thing since. He let her rest like that, knowing they would both need all the strength they could muster. He hoped she would be all right – hoped that he had made the right choice when he had invited her to come to their world. It had _felt_ right. She had wanted to come, that he knew. He had felt first-hand her longing to realise the ghosts of other people’s memories, to see with her own eyes at things glimpsed in dreams. Just as she had felt everything _he_ felt as their minds were made one by the chaos that had overtaken the universe. He supposed that must have been _why_ her decision had seemed right.

Unless . . .

The idea brought him up short. It couldn’t be, surely . . . but . . . Noah’s mind _did_ get overwhelmed by the things she saw sometimes. And by the people around her. And this time, they had been so, so close. Perhaps close enough that it was impossible to tell whose ideas were whose. And if were true, then –

Oh. No. If she had only made that choice because he wanted so badly to go home then . . .

That wasn’t fair –

“What are you doing here?”

The voice seemed to come out of nowhere. They both jerked, startled. Al instinctively shot upright, planting his feet. Noah flinched and moved a little behind him.

“This place is not for you.” The man was young and shaven-headed, dressed in traditional Ishbalan robes. He carried an ebony staff, carved with intricate patterns and a striped stole lay across his shoulders. His deep red eyes were narrowed and unfriendly. “You should not be here.”

Al hurriedly relaxed from his fighting stance and bowed respectfully. “I’m sorry, sir. We’re here by accident. We did not mean to intrude.”

“Intrude?” The Ishbalan’s lip curled. “It is not your blood that defiled this sand. It is not your kind who fell and died here. Do you truly believe that your presence here is something as mundane as an _intrusion_?”

“I’m sorry,” Al repeated, mind racing, “We really didn’t mean to be here. We’re lost. We’re didn’t mean to –”

“Please! _Didn’t mean to_ what? Be caught gloating over what your people did here?

“That is enough.” Another voice, calmer, less antagonistic. A second man stepped into view, dressed similarly but with a different coloured stole. He too was shaven headed but looked slightly older. “Our master would be ashamed to hear you.”

The first man rounded on him with a snarl. “ _Would he_? I think you overestimate his tolerance.”

“Delmar . . .” At the warning note that had entered his companion’s voice, he backed down a little but dug his staff into the sand angrily. The older man sighed and turned to Al “I am sorry. My brother is very possessive about these ruins. He takes our duties here very seriously.”

“It’s alright,” Al protested, “I understand. I . . . I’ve been here before. A-and . . . everything I’ve heard . . . you’re right, we shouldn’t be here. But we needed to get out of the sun and . . .”

“Of course. I do not believe our fathers’ spirits would object to that. You . . . are travellers?”

“Yes,” he answered carefully, “We’re trying to reach Liore. There were others with us but we got separated. And lost our supplies.”

The man’s eyes travelled up and down, taking in their clothes and obvious lack of preparation for any kind of long journey. “You must have missed your way in the sand storm. You have missed the road to Liore by some miles.”

“Oh. Yes, I guessed we must have.” Al’s face fell into the expression of hapless innocence that he half-consciously used when he needed to get something out of someone. “You wouldn’t be able to show us the right way to go, would you?”

“I could,” the man replied, “But I could not in clear conscience allow you to walk it as you are. You would not survive. There is a village nearby. I understand they receive weekly supply trucks from Liore. If we took you there, I’m sure the driver would be willing to let you ride with him.”

“Take them?!” Delmar snapped, aghast, “We have duties here, duties neither of us can complete alone! We cannot abandon our vows for the sake of two stray _travellers_!” The emphasis on the last word spoke volumes about what he thought of Al’s story.

“Our duty to the living outweighs our duty to the dead,” his brother interjected smoothly before Al could say anything, “That was the master’s way. It must be ours too. Those who died here are in Ishablla’s hands. They may do without our prayers for a little while.” He raised a hand to stall any further protests. “We can take you there now, if you wish.”

Al agreed immediately. It was only as he reached down to help Noah up that the penny dropped. He may have been much nicer about it but Delmar’s brother obviously wanted exactly the same thing: them out of the ruins as fast as possible.

He couldn’t see any reason why this was wrong, of course, yet Al did have to wonder what would have happened if he had said no.

 

* * *

 

They set off westwards, Delmar storming ahead with his face fixed in an expression of incredible sourness. Noah drifted to the rear of the group, still quiet, eyes downcast, leaving Al between her and Delmar’s brother. He ended up wavering at the latter’s side, uncomfortable in his borrowed robe and painfully aware of his companion’s silence.

He wanted, quite badly, to stop and hug her, to ask her to tell him what was the matter. But that was impossible while they were hiking across the desert. To avoid going mad with having to repress that urge, he forced himself to talk to the Ishbalan man, to ask about his work and the village they were walking towards.

“It was rebuilt by a group who had originally been driven from this region,” came the explanation, “This is their land, as desolate as it is now. They want to heal it. Not that that will be easy. Even if the storms are over . . .”

Al’s ears perked up. “Storms?”

“Yes. After the earthquakes, there was a spate of heavy sandstorms. Fairly buried everything around here.” The man’s eyes crinkled as he smiled slightly. “A great many people have taken the recent upheavals as a judgement, though they disagree about who is supposed to have been judged.”

“Do you believe that?” Al asked after a second.

The answer came quickly, with practised assuredness. “I believe that every grain of sand dancing in the wind does so because that is Ishballa’s will. Every storm, every tremor, they can only happen because He permits it. But that does not make them judgements. Merely facts that must be lived with. Ishballa judges us, that is true. But not like that. I cannot believe He would . . .” His voice trailed away, suddenly distant and less confident. Al decided not to press the matter.

“Are you two really brothers?” he asked a little while later, “You seem so . . . different.” As he said it, the image of Ed leapt into his mind and he was forced to admit that temperament was hardly a good indication of fraternity.

The man took the question in his stride. “We are brothers in our faith. We were raised together. Our fathers were killed in the war and our mothers turned to our master for help. In all that matters, we are family. But not directly in blood, no.”

“Ah. I – huh.” Al brought himself up short. “You’re telling me all that and I haven’t even asked your name.”

“Nor I, yours.” It was said in a perfectly level tone, not precisely casual but not a challenge either.

Al felt himself colour. “Oh . . . no . . . sorry. I should have said.” He cleared his throat. “I’m Alphonse Elric. Pleased to meet you.”

For two years, saying that had usually elicited no more than a polite handshake or an offhand remark about it being an unusual name. In the other world, outside of a very small group of people, ‘Elric’ meant nothing to anyone.

Delmar stopped as if he had walked straight into a wall and turned back to face them in utter, stupefied astonishment. His ‘brother’, though less expressive, was clearly no less speechless. Al abruptly wished he could take the words back. They seemed to have had the same effect as one of Ed’s more vitriolic outbursts. Why would simply saying his name . . . ?

“ _Elric_?” Delmar rasped, shock mixing with fury, “ _Alphonse Elric_?!”

“The younger brother,” the other man murmured, fingering his stole, “Still not a name someone wouldn’t produce without reason.”

“It’s my name!” Al squeaked, defensively, “I’m Alphonse Elric . . . what’s . . . what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. In principle. But it does identify you as one of the heroes and martyrs of the 'new' Amestris.”

Al’s jaw dropped. He _had_ been vaguely aware of Ed’s fame during his time spent combing the country for evidence of their travels and, of course, with his memories returned from the Gate, he knew why it was that people talked of ‘the alchemist of the people’. But it had been . . . peripheral. An unimportant side-effect. And that _he_ might share some of his brother’s notoriety had never even entered his head. What had he ever done, except get mistaken for the older of the two? Perhaps it was some attenuating effect of how he spent those years of endless searching but it was often difficult to recall more than the barest facts and figures – which he could, sometimes with startling clarity – but the emotional context was . . . difficult to judge. Some moments stuck out starkly – Shou Tucker and the empty, soulless children he had created, Lab 5 and the homunculi, Scar and Kimblee in Liore, _Martel –_ but mostly, it was if he were seeing everything in black and white. He found it hard to tell how he had felt about most things and almost impossible to remember how other people had reacted to him. Small, vital cues were missing. He knew, intellectually, that he had been intimidating, in that great empty armour. He knew people had been grateful for everything Ed did. But . . . it was hard to be sure what that _meant_ , hard to know what people had to be sure how people had _felt_ about them. How he had felt about it . . .

The point was that the Ishbalan’s words conjured up alien ideas which might as well have dropped out of the sky. People _knew_ about them? People they’d never met knew _their names_? They were considered _martyrs_?!

All this ran through his head in a few seconds, which was more than enough time for Delmar to recover from his initial reaction and begin giving full vent to his opinions on the matter. “An alchemist! An _Elric_!” His voice trembled with anger. “ _Here_! _How_. _Dare_. _You_? How _dare_ you set _foot_ across the _border_ , let alone into these lands?! This is . . . this . . . is . . . obscene!”

“Delmar.” His brother spoke loudly and clearly and with an air of finality. “Enough. I am well aware of your feelings towards Amestrians and alchemists alike and by now, I imagine, so are these people. All that bile does not change the fact that the right thing is to take them to safety and help them on their way. Stop complicating matters with your lack of self-control.”

Silence. Delmar’s jaw worked furiously, his teeth audibly clacking and scraping, his fingers tight on the ebony staff, which he was holding like a club. Finally, with some great effort, he forced himself into a semblance of calmness. The staff dropped back to the vertical and he eased his grip, allowing it to sink into the sand a little. “Very well,” he whispered.

His brother nodded, satisfied, then flicked his gaze back to Al and Noah. “It might be wise,” he said calmly, as though nothing had happened since he had last spoken to them, “if you didn’t mention your name while you remain on Ishbalan land. While many of us no longer consider alchemists to be completely inhuman, old wounds remain open.” A warning note entered his voice. “You would be wise to be careful.” Then, he added, “And my name, by the way, is Amantius.”

 

* * *

 

The remainder of the trek passed slowly and in silence. Al’s mind raced as he tried to work out what he was going to do. On the one hand, if people really did think Ed and he were famous, then it should be easy to get help finding his brother. On the other, if the Ishbalans were still anti-alchemy, he would probably not find much help until they got back to Amestris – at least, he wouldn’t if people knew who he really was. He would need to think up a better story about who they were and why they were there, which was a risk. Quite apart from Amantius and Delmar, what if he was recognised . . . But on the _other_ hand, from what the Brigadier General and Captain Hawkeye had told them, they had been presumed _dead_. And it had been over two years, not to mention a few abnormal growth spurts since anyone had seen him. He had been physically much younger and much smaller when anyone in his home world had last seen him. And no one would know Noah. On yet another hand, of course, that would also mean that it might be difficult to convince anyone that Ed could be alive and would need help. But on the fifth hand . . .

As buildings began to appear on the horizon, the only thing that had come from these frenzied thoughts was the discovery that he had enough ‘other hands’ to make an octopus jealous.

The closer they got, the more dilapidated the settlement began to look. It probably hadn’t been exactly comfortable before the earthquakes but now, half the structures were either badly damaged or had collapsed completely, while the rest looked as if they would follow at any moment. Props and scaffolding covered everything, in some cases so rickety themselves that they were probably about as effective at supporting the stonework as the wishful thinking that had put them there.

There were few people in sight. The impression was, though, that there would have been far more if they had arrived a few minutes earlier. Tools and pots lay in doorways and the entrances to side alleys, abandoned but set down too carefully to have been discarded in a panic. Amantius and Delmar exchanged glances as they crossed the village boundaries. From somewhere ahead of them drifted the sounds of voices raised in argument.

“What’s going on?” Al asked, nervously tugging at his robe.

“I don’t know”, Amantius said, craning his neck to look into one of the nearest houses.

“Whatever it is,” and Delmar’s less-than-subtle glare showed that he was drawing rather paranoid connections about what ‘it’ was, “it hardly sounds like a prayer meeting.”

“Scarred Men.”

The four of them turned together at the deep, husky voice. An old woman, generously built and still handsome, stood in the door of a small hovel on the other side of the rough street, her great arms folded and her gaze steady. “A group of them,” she went on, once she had their full attention, “throwing their weight around. Called everyone together to hear them rant.”

“Oh dear.” Passing a hand over his chin, Amantius frowned. “That could be unfortunate.”

“It could,” the woman agreed, jerking her head at Al, “if they see him.”

“All the same, _we_ must go and try to be the voice of reason . . .”

“Yes. You must.” She seemed to mull the problem over as the priest hesitated, torn between his charges and the distant mob. Delmar had already strode a few paces up the road, impatient to be among his people, though whether that was to talk them down from something or hit them about the head with his staff, Al found it difficult to judge.

The woman reached a decision. Imperiously, she extended a hand and gestured for the strangers to come closer. “I’ll take them,” she announced, “Keep them hidden until things quieten down. You go and make things quieten down.”

Amantius looked askance at Al. He nodded vigorously. “If that’s what’s best, you go.” After all, he had a horrible feeling he knew what ‘Scarred Men’ referred to.

The Ishbalan man smiled briefly, in thanks, then charged after his brother, leaving Al and Noah to once again consign themselves to the care of someone they had only just met. She beckoned them into the little house, waving them in ahead of her. It was as he passed her that Al chanced to see straight into her eyes.

They were alive, intelligent and very, very green.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The Ishballan names used here are derived from Latin, which I decided to do because the only Ishballan names given in the anime are 'Rick' and 'Leo'.  
> \- Amantius was originally called 'Adelais', which I'm not quite sure how I arrived at given that it's another form of Adelaide. Oops.


	8. The Singer and the Scarred Men

The room was low and cluttered, but not exactly untidy. There was a sort of order in it all, as if all you had to do to find things was know where they had been left. Noah hovered gingerly just over the threshold, afraid she was going to knock something over, acutely aware that they were intruding in someone’s home.

“Go in, go in,” the woman ordered impatiently, sweeping Al – who had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the roof – before her, “We can’t hide you if you’re going to stand in the doorway, can we?” She ushered them to a couple of stools, settling herself in an old woven chair as though it were a throne. There was self-assuredness in the way she moved that spoke of someone completely at their ease. It gave her the air of someone far grander than she looked.

Or . . . or was that just Noah’s imagination. She couldn’t be sure. She would have been – before – but now . . .

Al was talking, tripping over his tongue as he tried to thank the woman and ask her what exactly she was hiding them from at the same time. Noah was fairly certain he had been flustered by something – and surely it couldn’t just be the situation? He was used to sudden changes. There had to be something else, something that was lost on her. Hadn’t there?

The woman waved the thanks aside. “You’re an Amestrian boy in an Ishbalan village. You wouldn’t last two seconds with those maniacs on the prowl.”

“I guess not.” Al hesitated. “‘Scarred men’ . . . does that mean . . . ?”

She drew a finger contemptuously across her forehead, once, twice, the shape of an ‘X’. “Their ‘ _prophet_ ’. As if they could justify turning their backs on all that our people stand for. Hmm.” Breaking off, she fixed him with an appraising look. Her deep green eyes – and that wasn’t right, was it? – swept up and down. “Great heavens boy, but you look familiar. I haven’t seen a face that pale in years but there’s something at the back of my mind...” Her head turned, owl-like, to look at Noah. “You though . . . if your mother wasn’t Ishbalan, I don’t know what she was.”

Noah avoided her gaze awkwardly, hands tightening on the borrowed robes. Al came to her rescue before she had time to think of a reply. “I’m Alph – Al,” he corrected, a little too quickly, “And this is Noah. We’re travelling together and we just want to get home.”

“No need to get defensive, boy,” the woman replied calmly, folding her hands in her lap, “Makes no odds to me who you are but you’re in my house so I’ll be nosy as I wish. And while we’re at it, I’m Julinka. Better than ‘mad old hag’ or whatever it is you were thinking of me as, I’m sure.” She ignored Al’s spluttering attempt to object to that. “Alf and Noah, hmm? Pretty names. Your own, if you’re as honest as your . . . face . . .”

Julinka’s brow furrowed then cleared. She stood and made her way to an old chest that sat in one corner of the room. Without ceremony, she threw it open and began to rummage inside, eventually extracting a tattered copy book. Returning to her chair, she began to thumb through it, carefully shielding it from her guests. Al made as if to say something but held himself back, frowning at the woman’s behaviour. For her part, Noah watched from behind her fringe, a knot of worry tightening in her stomach. Julinka had recognised Al and was looking for something that would confirm that recognition – at least, that could be it, couldn’t it? And if that was true . . . what did it mean? How would she act? Would she –

Julinka stopped with a page half-turned. Slowly, she folded it back and brushed it flat. Then she looked up, steely-eyed. “So. What are you doing out here, Alphonse Elric?”

“I . . .” Al turned one hand up and rubbed at the back of his neck with the other. “I told you: trying to get home. And I would have . . . Amantius and Delmar said –”

“I’m sure. It’s not a name to be proud of here.”

“But why not?!” Al’s voice rose and cracked. “All my brother ever did was try and help! Why –”

“Calm down.” That was an order, firm and sharp. “There are many here who’d help anyone, as you well know. But just as many think they have good reason not to trust alchemy as far as they can kick it. They look back and all they can see is the misery it caused.” Her features softened a little. “Maybe that’s not sensible or justifiable or right but there it is. That’s what people are like. They hear the name Elric and all they think is ‘alchemist’. Because that’s what the stories say you are.”

“Does this mean you want us to leave?” Noah asked, in a tiny voice.

Julinka rounded on her incredulously. “Oh, you can speak, can you? Of course not. All the more reason for you to stay out of sight. In fact, we need to do more than that. We need to get him looking a bit more like you and a bit less like he should be waltzing round a Central dance hall with a carnation in his button hole.”

She gave an extravagant wink and it suddenly dawned on Noah that the woman was not only making fun of Al, she was inviting Noah into the joke. Or – was she? Helplessly, she ducked her head and didn’t reply.

Julinka shut the copy book and stood up again, pointing. “Fetch that big jar down from that shelf, boy. And you, girl, the brown bottle in that box. No, not that one, boy, the _big_ one. At the end.” While they were hurrying to obey, she unhooked a brass cooking pot from the wall and set it atop the stove. Into this, she poured a measure of water from a pitcher, adding in turn a large amount of the powder from the jar Al brought her, and a dash from the bottle that Noah retrieved. They sat back, watching her as she blended and stirred the ingredients with a large wooden spoon. She hummed as she worked, a light, bouncing melody.

Noah stared at the book that Julinka had set aside, wondering what in it had given Al away. He must have been thinking the same thing – mustn’t he? – because a moment later, he asked out-right. “How did you know who I was?”

Julinka’s attention remained fixed on the pot but she broke off the tune and answered him without hesitation. “Those paper-photographers are quite good, even when they're just stealing old family pictures. Look, if you want. See how we get to see you.” Al picked up the book and opened it at where he must have estimated that Julinka had been looking. Noah heard his breath catch from where she was sitting and leaned closer.

Wordlessly, he held the book out to her. Newspaper cuttings had been pasted across the pages, pictures and articles mingled haphazardly together. The biggest headline was on the right, halfway down. It was short and to the point: _Heroes of the People Believed Dead_. Directly below it were two pictures, portraits set back-to-back. Two boys with fair hair and wide eyes stared up at her, evidently equally uncomfortable at being photographed. She recognised them, of course, and it was not hard to see how someone looking at the pictures might realise who Al was. He may have gotten much taller but his face had not really changed. Unlike Ed, who had lost any trace of childishness, Al’s features remained open, honest and guileless.

The article, such as it was, reported the apparent deaths of the Elric brothers. Though no official funeral was to be held, they were to be honoured with monuments in the State Cemetery. Nothing that they had not already learnt from Mustang and Hawkeye. Except here, it was described in such a triumphalist tone that the reader would have been forgiven for thinking that the Elrics had single-handedly brought about a revolution in state alchemy and had gone down in a blaze of glory, sacrificing themselves for the good of the nation. “This is wrong!” she blurted, “That’s not . . .”

Julinka’s laugh was short, sharp and humourless. “Says who? You? Were you there? Are you a better witness than whoever wrote those things?”

“Well, I . . .” Noah’s mind went blank. “I . . .” She _was_ – she knew that. She had seen what had really happened, through the eyes of the people it had happened to. But who would believe that? Especially if –

“And what about me?” Al asked quietly, “Do I get to say what actually happened?”

“Of course you don’t,” Julinka replied cheerfully, shaking red dust into the pot, “And if you did, no one would believe you anyway. You’re here now – means you must have had help in hiding. No one’ll believe that wasn’t the State.”

The mixture bubbled thickly. Noah hurriedly shut the book and put it aside, unaccountably embarrassed to have been holding it.

“It had nothing to do with the State,” Al explained to their host.

She grunted noncommittally in response and stirred her cauldron.

“It didn’t,” he insisted, “It was . . . it . . . ahh . . .” His trailing off evoked no more response than his speaking in the first place. Julinka ladled out a measure of maroon liquid and sniffed at it.

Giving up on finding any kind of plausible explanation, Al asked another question. “Why do you have cuttings from a paper in Central?”

“Why shouldn’t I have?” Julinka shot back.

“Urr . . . no reason, I guess .. . but . . .”

“But an Ishbalan biddy living on the edge of the desert ought to have better things on her mind than Central tattle-rags, yes?”

“Well, I –”

“Some things are worth remembering, even when they’re not told right, boy. You’re an alchemist – don’t you know that? Besides,” she continued before he could reply to that, “I have had more than one home in my life.”

It was an opening, one that Al was – probably – helpless to resist. “You mean . . you’re not actually an Ishbalan?”

She looked straight at him, lifting one gnarled finger to her eye and pulling it ever so slightly wider. The green iris sparkled. “By faith and vow, I am. That’s enough for me and most.” She heaved the cooking pot off the stove and set it aside to cool, the bubbling gradually subsiding. Folding her skirts about her, she knelt to extinguish the flame. Her face crinkled even more as she smiled wryly. “You do a lot of things for love. Sometimes you find more than love in return. Now –” Sloshing more water out of the pitcher, she mixed it into her brew then waved Al nearer. “Take this, boy, and get it painted over you.”

He eyed the mixture dubiously. “Right . . .”

“Here!” She lifted it and thrust it into his hands. “You can go over there. There’s a mirror in the corner.”

“Yes . . . right,” he repeated, hesitantly, “But isn’t there a lot more than –”

“All over you boy, all over. How many Ishbalans do you reckon have pale chests, hm? Go on!”

Driven by the force of her voice, Al picked his way across to the corner she had indicated. Putting the pot down and dipping his fingers in, he hesitated and looked back, his cheeks reddening.

“We’re looking the other way, boy,” Julinka announced, turning her chair with great ceremony and sitting down with her back to him, “Get to covering up those blushes.”

Noah glimpsed Al’s scandalised expression as she hurried to follow Julinka’s example and turn away, and there was a note of satisfaction in the old woman’s voice when she told her to bring her stool closer so they could talk better. “Haven’t seen a boy that pretty in a long time,” she told her conspiratorially, patting her hand, “Takes me back to my ballroom days.”

Noah stiffened at the touch. _Nothing_. There was nothing there, not a flicker of thought, just dead, empty sensation. Mute and horrified, she shrank away.

“You don’t get his type out here,” Julinka expanded, apparently not noticing Noah’s reaction, “Sons and daughters of Ishbal, they can be beautiful but never pretty. The desert beats that out of them. Like you. You’re a good looking girl but I think you’ve spent too much time wild to be dainty. But he grew up being able to get out of the sun and the wind. That leaves a mark for life too. Still . . . he’s not pretty inside, is he? No, I don’t think he is. There’s something else there. An alchemist’s soul . . . supposed to be different from the rest of us, they are.”

Behind them, a rustling announced Al fighting his way out of his borrowed clothes. Julinka paused to call out to him.

“Rub it right in, boy. You’re not supposed to end up looking painted.” She turned back to Noah. “‘Course, most of the alchemists I ever met were mad. And mad souls are different, aren’t they?”

Unable to help herself, the girl shivered.

Once again, Julinka seemed oblivious to the reaction. “Different and each different of themself. No two are mad in the same way, I think . . . But listen to me, girl! As if you didn’t know how people see people like your boy over there. You look brighter than to need things spelling –”

Someone rapped on the door, loudly and clearly. Al hissed and, from the sound of it, nearly dropped the cooking pot.

“Stay where you are, boy,” Julinka commanded, rising and sweeping across the room. She opened the door without hesitation, as if nothing at all was amiss. Around her ample silhouette, Noah caught sight of a small figure swathed in clothes a couple of years too big for it.

“Brother Amantius sent me,” it said in a high, out-of-breath voice, “He said for me to tell you that the Scarred Men have put up a camp on the edge of town and they won’t move on today an’ that he’s gonna have to stay with the village council to stop things going bad and that Delmar’s staying with him.”

“Of course he is,” Julinka replied brusquely, “I don’t think he can stand being more than a foot away from Amantius. Hm. Well, in that case, you’d better get on off to your papa’s house and tell your brother that his _telas_ is a disgrace and that he’s to bring it here at once so I can mend it. At once, mind you. And your mamma must have a dress she needs mending too. That too. Go on, hurry.”

“Yes, _domna_! Right away, _domna_!” the figure squeaked and it dashed away in a flurry of urgent movements.

“A good girl, Lalo,” Julinka commented as she made her way back to her chair, “Her brother, less so but he’s about your size and a worn _telas_ about your size is better than a priest’s robe too big.”

“If we’re going to cause you problems,” Al began, only to be waved away without so much as a glance.

“Stop being dim, boy, and finish muddying yourself to a decent colour. I want my conscience to let me sleep tonight.”

 

* * *

 

By the time the pallor of Al’s skin and the brightness of his hair had been more or less covered up, Lalo’s brother had sheepishly delivered a set of Ishbalan robes that would more or less fit and a dress that was just a little too big. As Julinka had predicted, once they were wearing the borrowed clothes, the two of them looked far less obtrusive. As long as no one looked too close, they would be able to pass among a crowd of Ishbalans unnoticed. Which was fortunate, since when Amantius arrived an hour later, the first thing he did was hurriedly explain that the Scarred Men had made their camp on the side of the road the Lior truck used. “I don’t know what they intend to do,” he said, unconsciously tapping his foot, “Probably nothing but try and scare the driver off but . . . it might be best if you met it further out and it never had to come near them.

“You can’t let them stop your supplies,” Al protested, “Especially on account of us –”

He was interrupted by Julinka’s laugh, which was loud and deep and hearty. Amantius smiled slightly. “That’s a very commendable sentiment,” he told Al calmly, “but unnecessary. We’ll bury the supplies and recover them later. It’s an old trick for getting around road-blocks.”

“I guess . . . but . . .” Al chewed his lip, “You shouldn’t let them intimidate you.”

“Boy, do you know how long we lived with your country ‘intimidating us’?” Julinka asked gruffly.

“Yes, bu –” This time, Al cut himself off, scowling. “I just wish I could help,” he admitted eventually.

“Good,” she told him, “because if you didn’t, you wouldn’t be worth helping.”

Noah watched them talk, half-listening, lost in the motion of their hands and their faces. A dull panic was boiling inside her. She had seen nothing when Julinka touched her. She had seen nothing when _Al_ touched her. He had held her for a moment and pulled her out of the sand, his hand tight around hers and she had seen _nothing_. Not a glimmer of what he was thinking. Would it be the same if she came into contact with Amantius? What about the little girl? Or Ed?

A feeling of disconnection overwhelmed her, a sudden terror of being unable to understand a language that she had previously been fluent in. Was this what it had been like for the people of Babel? To see people doing what they had always done and feel lost?

Time and people slipped around her at the wrong speed. Minutes went by while she fretted over a single thought. She jumped when Al came over to her, although he had approached in plain sight, and it took her an age to realise that he had his hand on her shoulder. When Julinka ordered them to get some sleep – and to take the bed, soundly ignoring Al’s protests – Noah was astonished to find that it had gotten dark.

“You can have it to yourself, Noah,” Al told her, waving at the low, rickety bed, “I don’t mind sleeping on the floor . . . I’m wasting my breath again, aren’t I?”

He smiled as she nodded.

“Why am I always being pushed about by girls?” he muttered, perching on the edge and trying to figure out how the Ishbalan clothes came undone, “Brother too, but he can get mad at it and nobody will mind . . . I wonder where Winry is now? I hope she’s still OK . . . and Aunty . . . you’ll like them. They’ll probably be mad at us but don’t let that fool you. They’re really kind – but you know that already, don’t you?”

He chattered on about the people and places they would go and see once they were back in Resembool for a while, keeping it up until they were lying back to back on the bed. He made it sound as though there was nothing in the world that could stand in their way, as if the sleepy town was just a few miles away and Ed would be sitting waiting for them when they got there. Noah wondered how much of that was for her benefit and how much was Al trying to make himself believe it.

All the fear of uncertainty came rushing back and she screwed her eyes tightly shut in an effort to block out the alien world around her. It didn’t help. It wasn’t the world that was the problem. It was her and what she didn’t – couldn’t – feel. The full horror of living without the images that danced through her dreams struck her. She would see people and feel their touch but they would be shells, all at once empty and without depth. A world full of mere shapes . . .

Her throat tightened and tears pricked her eyes. The sheets, thin as they were, were still too hot and constricting. She fought her way out of them, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. She lay on her back for an eternity, the blackness of the future rising up to swallow her. Then, in a final rush of desperation, she turned over and wrapped her arms around Al, feeling for his face, his neck, his chest, pressing her hands against his flesh hard enough to hurt both of them.

There was nothing. Just sweat and skin and heartbeats.

“Noah . . .” Al’s voice was strained, on the verge of cracking, “Noah, what is it? _What’s wrong_?”

And she told him. Just like that, out loud, she told him that everything that had made her unique and unusual was gone. It took all of half a minute. Yet when she had said it, she felt exhausted. The brief strength that came with despair sapped away, leaving her lying limply against Al’s shoulder. He shifted awkwardly under her slight weight.

“I’m sorry,” was the first thing he said, “I’m . . . I shouldn’t have brought you here.” He fell silent again for a brief while, burying the side of his face in the pillow, then shifted to take her hand in his. “They said . . . said nothing could pass through the Gate unchanged. They meant this . . . whatever made you what you were on the other side . . . I don’t think there can be clairvoyants on this side of the Gate, just like there can’t be alchemists on the other. It would be dangerous . . . or . . .”

She shivered as he said it, for no other reason than the thought of something so easily changing her very nature. She knew he was right. The conclusion had come to her much earlier, as she worried and fretted. But that merely made it worse. It meant there could be no going back.

Perhaps realising he was not helping, Al released her hand and twisted, so that she could see his face. His eyes were wide and helpless in the gloom. “I’m sorry,” he repeated hollowly, “This is my fault. I thought that . . . that you wanted to come, but . . . I didn’t want this.”

Noah said nothing. Her voice seemed to have withered away and she wasn’t sure she would have been able to scream if someone had set her on fire.

“Noah . . .” He took her hand again. “I promise . . . I’ll do everything I can to make this OK. I . . . I don’t think I could get it back . . . make you . . . what you were on the other side . . . but . . . you’re more than just a psychic. Look at brother. He managed to keep going without alchemy – when there was no chance of getting alchemy back. This isn’t . . . it won’t . . .” He groped for something that would sound right, that wouldn’t make things worse than they were. “You’ve still got legs. You’ll get up and dance again.”

He fell silent after that, his eyes betraying his sense of failure when she didn’t respond. Once or twice, he started to say something more but each time he stopped himself and just stared at her miserably. She stared back and still could not say a word.

And the silence was terrible.

 

* * *

 

Julinka roused them early by the simple expedient of banging the breakfast cooking-pots together. It occurred to Al, rather belatedly, that she had been sleeping in her chair not all that far from the bed and that it was entirely possible that she had heard everything. She certainly seemed inordinately preoccupied with giving Noah jobs to do, little things like fetching water and washing up that kept you busy but didn’t need much thought.

They had a day to wait. The supply truck was due that evening and, if Amantius made good on his word, it would wait a mile outside the town. The plan was for them to set out just after sunset and circle round to avoid the Scarred Men’s camp. The priest intended to turn up at the camp at the same time and preach at them as a distraction. Al was not sure this sounded like a very sensible plan but since it was important that the supplies were unloaded and hidden without discovery, anything that helped keep things secret was worth trying.

His suspicions that Julinka was trying to keep Noah busy were reinforced when the old woman announced that she could use some help with her day’s shopping. When the penny dropped that she meant both of them, he protested (from experience) that putting too much pressure on a disguise was a bad idea. After all, his skin and hair might have been much browner but it really didn’t look that convincing up close. And his eyes were still completely the wrong colour. At that, Julinka took a small wooden case from a nearby shelf and produced a pair of neat spectacles with dark lenses. “My husband had weak eyes,” she explained, looking slightly distant, “Wore these when the sun hurt him too much. More’n a few go like that. Won’t look unusual.”

Since he suspected she would have answers to most of his other objections and since he thought that it might, in any case, be a good idea to get an impression of the layout of the town, he gave in and put the glasses on. A last surge of worry made him point out that Noah had nothing to cover her eyes but Julinka simply shrugged.

“There are plenty like her here, boy.”

They stepped outside into a new-born morning. The sun had risen only a little way above the horizon and the air, though dry, was not yet baking hot. As Julinka secured her front door, Al glanced at Noah and felt a pang of guilt hit him in the gut. She stood there, rigid and silent, eyes cast down and her shawl pulled tightly about her. He wanted to throw his arms around her and hug her tight, to comfort her properly, as he should have done when she had told him what had happened. Except he couldn’t, because what had happened was his fault.

All he could do was make it right.

Somehow.

 

* * *

 

Julinka set a sedate pace up the dusty street. She moved with completely unhurried self-assurance, stopping every few minutes to exchange good mornings and gossip with people busying themselves outside their houses. And in spite of the despair that still hung over her, the sights and sounds and smells of the town were too bright and sharp and strange not to drag Noah’s attention outwards. The buildings were like nothing she had ever seen before, even in other people’s memories, built square and smooth as though carved from the sand itself. Faded striped awnings hung over the windows and doors, shading them protectively and breaking up the monotonous dull yellow of the desert with the memories of brilliant colours. In truth, nothing looked anything less than faded. Julinka was right. Nothing in that place could have stayed pretty.

And she had been right about the people too. They _were_ extremely striking, tall and dark and elegant in long robes. Their rich voices rose and fell around the three of them, a tumult of English – no, _Amestrian_ – and a language Noah didn’t recognise, women chattering over shopping baskets, men grumbling about prices and the weather, children laughing and screaming as they played. All the chaos of a town waking up. They passed traders hauling carts towards the market place, workmen shoring up half-ruined houses, a goatherd desperately trying to cajole a stray from the top of a wall, even a young man stripped to his waist and working under the hood of a run-down old car. It was alien and familiar all at once and for a glorious moment, Noah felt excited by the prospect of seeing more of the strange, mundane place.

It was as the black depression reasserted itself, as the fact that the experience would _stop_ at sight and sound and smell filtered back into the front of her consciousness, that she noticed the lack of reaction to her and Al’s presence. They did not pass unacknowledged. A woman working at some sort of loom gave them a curt nod as they passed. A teenage boy smiled tentatively at Noah from under a mop of greyish hair, until the workman he was supposed to be helping clipped him round the ear. The man on the butcher’s stall handed Julinka’s parcels straight to Al the moment she paid. But not one of them asked who they were. No one seemed even the slightest bit curious.

“If I ask why no one’s staring at us, are you going to call me stupid again?” Al asked Julinka quietly as he heaved her now-laden basket around a corner.

The old woman looked sidelong at him and smiled wickedly. “When did I call you stupid, boy?”

“You make ‘boy’ sound like ‘stupid’ almost every time you say it,” he told her, without any real irritation.

“Mm. Well. It would be rude to stare.”

“Yes, but –”

“Boy.” And this time the word was _definitely_ being pronounced ‘stupid.’ “Just because they aren’t staring when you’re looking doesn’t mean they aren’t curious. You think we’d not be good at not bein’ seen looking?”

“Well, no –”

“Well then. Don’t be stupid. _Boy_.”

Noah stifled a laugh at the look of offended dignity on Al’s face. He noticed and smiled self-consciously. Just like Alfons. Just like Ed, if you caught him right. A chink of light broke through the despair at that thought. She wanted to tell him that she didn’t blame him, that it had been her choice to come and that it wasn’t his fault that she had lost her second sight to the Gate. But the terror of the loss stirred up again and she could not speak out. The laughter faded and she looked away.

“Good morning, _domna_ ,” the baker greeted cheerfully from her stall, “Some _panir_ for you today?”

“Just two, _domna_ , just two,” Julinka called back, “You’re well today?”

“I am _domna_ , but – oh!” Her startled exclamation made all three of them look over their shoulders.

Four young Ishbalan men stood behind them in a rough triangle formation, their clothes dirty and militaristic, their expressions sneering and unpleasant. And across their forehead, jagged ‘X’s were picked out in pale scars. The leader, powerfully built and white-haired, took a deliberate step closer, a slow, unpleasant smile sliding over his face. “ _Domna_ , _domna_.” He nodded at the older women. “The day goes well?”

“ _Vir_ ,” Julinka acknowledged coolly, “Can we do something for you?”

“Nothing. I simply wanted to see if it was true.” He looked her directly in the eye and his smile widened. “I thought Madron was joking when he said an old Amestrian whore lived in this town. But no true Ishbalan could have your eyes.”

Al tensed visibly and Noah bit her lip against a mixture of panic and anger. Julinka simply crossed her arms and gave the Scarred Man a look that could have cracked concrete. When she shifted that look onto one of the other men, he quailed under it. “Oh. So this is what happened to you after your papa kicked you out, is it Madron?” She snorted derisively. “You never could think for yourself. And what would a godless child like you know of being a true Ishbalan?” she asked, turning back to the leader.

“Hah!” His laugh was sharp and cold. “Oh, yes . . . _God_. Shall I tell you about God, old woman? God let my people die while the old fools who believed in Him prayed and told us not to save ourselves.” He took another step closer, voice ringing with bitterness. “Perhaps He objected to us letting people like you into our beds. Perhaps _that_ was why He turned his back on His children.”

Something, perhaps the sound of someone gritting their teeth, made Noah look away for a second. A thrill of surprise ran through her. There were suddenly a lot more people in the market place and all of them were gravitating towards the confrontation. She recognised some of the workmen from earlier, the boy who had smiled at her, the butcher. They made a grim sight, gradually encircling the scarred man and the woman he was insulting. The man himself didn’t seem to have noticed them yet. His eyes were fixed on Julinka. The other Scarred Men did though and they exchanged nervous glances.

“Zaniel . . .” the one called Madron began.

“Or maybe,” Zaniel continued, apparently oblivious to anything but the old woman, “He just didn’t like your singing. I think I’d leave if someone was singing Amestrian brothel songs.”

Noah, to her own surprise, _felt_ the crowd’s mood blacken. A dozen tiny noises and the way people were shifting on the edge of her vision conspired to produce a sensation of rising anger almost as palpable as if she had been feeling it herself. Except . . . she _was_ feeling it herself. Of course she was. How could she not, given what the man was saying?

Zaniel finally became aware of the crowd around him. He turned his head to survey them with narrowed eyes. And came face to face with Delmar. The priest held his staff at an angle across his body, partly, it seemed, ready to lash out, partly ready to block an attack. In the event, he did neither, instead addressing the man in a tone of forced reasonableness that sounded as though he were imitating Amantius. “Ishbala does not abandon people simply because of the songs they chose to sing.”

“Is that so, brother priest?” The scarred man did not appear at all concerned that he was the centre of a crowd. In fact, he looked rather pleased with himself. “So why did He leave us?”

“Ishbala _never left_!” Delmar’s ordinary temperament resurfaced. “We were never abandoned!”

“Weren’t we?” Zaniel spoke louder now, addressing the crowd at large. “So where was the holy fire? The cracks in the earth to swallow up our enemies? The lightning from the cloudless sky? Haven’t you heard? Those were our enemies’ weapons! We were the ones who burnt and screamed. We were the ones driven from our homes! We were the ones who suffered! Where was your God then, brother priest? Where was Ishbala?”

“Here, boy,” Julinka growled, patting her chest, “Where he always is. Though I doubt he’s there.” She pointed to Zaniel’s heart as he rounded on her.

He sneered. “ _Please_.” He turned back to the crowd, lifting his fist. “When you’ve all grown tired of the bleating of the old, we’ll be waiting. We’ll give you _justice_ , not just Amestris trying to ease its _conscience_.” With that, he strode away, the people parting to let him through. There was contempt in his every step. The other scarred men followed hastily, Madron hunching his shoulders as two dozen glares bored into his back.

Delmar’s staff thumped against the ground and he huffed irritably. “Godless thugs.”

“Are you all right, _domna_?” the butcher asked Julinka concernedly, “Do you need someone to help you home?”

“Yes, _vir_ , of course I am,” the old woman replied, sounding exasperated, “And thank you, I already have someone to help me. Don’t I, boy?”

Al un-tensed and nodded vigorously, adjusting the basket in his hands. “Yes, uh, _domna_. Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- On the same principal that alchemy could not work in 'our world', Noah's psychic abilities won't work in Amestris. At least, that's the theory I'm working with, plus a side-order in the Gate 'polarising' her to the side it put her on. Whether I stick with that long term . . . ? Up in the air.  
> \- Julinka's former life as a singer is not really alluded to that much in this chapter, which is unfortunately given how much I like the title . . . ah well.  
> \- Al's 'disguise' is purely for the Scarred Men's benefit and fooled no one in town in the slightest. They were simply all too polite to say anything.  
> \- More on the Scarred Men to come . . . in a future story.


	9. Passage Rites

They passed the rest of the day sheltering in Julinka’s house. Delmar, sour-faced and sullen, joined them for lunch more or less at his own invitation. He barely said a single word to either of the travellers and only complained to Julinka about the foolishness of anyone who listened to people like Zaniel. Al was a little bit relieved when the priest left, taking his gloom with him.

Julinka hummed and sung to herself as she busied herself mending a dress that looked as if it had been fixed many times before. She had a good singing voice, one that, while no longer beautiful, was still honest and heartfelt. Al listened to her with his eyes half-closed, sitting with his back to the warm stone wall. The heat made him drowsy and he couldn’t focus on all the things he knew he should be thinking about. Noah sat across the room from him, perched on the edge of the bed. Her fingers played with each other as she stared unseeingly into space. He knew he should go to her and talk to her properly, about what had happened, about what he intended to do about it, about everything. But the thought still terrified him and he said nothing.

They ate another meal just before sunset, Julinka insisting they eat before they leave. Once again, Al was slow on the uptake and only realised the woman’s intentions when she put on her boots. “You’re not coming too!”

It was half question, half order. It earned him one of the most withering looks he had ever received in his life. “Apart from me not thinking much of being cooped up in my house, at night, with those scarred lunatics on the loose, boy, how were you planning to find your way to the road? Follow your nose?”

“But you – you’re –”

“What I am is tough, stubborn, and older and wiser than you. Now. You can wait here for me to tell you the coast’s clear. Get that robe sorted out and be ready to come when I call.”

Al sighed and gave up on ever meeting a woman who wasn’t going to be able to make him feel two inches tall every so often. He’d always believed that that particular unerring ability belonged to Ed alone but was gradually coming to the conclusion that it must afflict his family more generally.

He had just managed to get the _telas_ ‘sorted out’ as Julinka put it – i.e. get it back on over his own shirt – when Noah laid a hand on his shoulder. “Al . . . I . . .” She hesitated, then spoke at a rush. “I don’t blame you. I wanted to come here. I didn’t expect . . . but it’s not your fault.” He began reply but she didn’t let him. “I’d . . . once I’d have given anything to be normal. To not be able to see what it was like to be someone else . . . I . . . I never thought that I’d…” She shook her head in disbelief. “That when it was gone, I’d feel so . . .”

Her hand moved from his shoulder to cup his cheek. He shivered a little at the unexpected touch. “There’s something missing,” she went on, “This . . . doesn’t feel right. I . . .” With a deep breath, she took her hand away and opened and closed it uncertainly for a second. “But you didn’t take it away. And you couldn’t have stopped it happening. And if that meant I wouldn’t have been able to come with you then . . . I want to see your home. I’ve wanted to see it so badly, since I first met Ed and . . . I know this world’s not heaven or . . . or Shambala . . . but it’s your home. And you’re the only people who’ve ever treated me as if I was someone normal and . . . even after everything I did . . .” She trailed off, drawing away, the torrent of words drying up.

Al swallowed hard. “Noah . . . I’d do anything to –” Her arms were around him and her head was buried in his shoulder before he could say anything else. He stood there dumbly, and then gently returned the hug, leaning his head against hers. “I want you here too,” he managed hoarsely, “You spent so long looking after me and brother –”

The door creaked open. Julinka’s head appeared around it. Her eyebrows lifted at the sight of them embracing and her glinting green eyes rolled exasperatedly. “Another bad timed heart-to-heart. Of course it is.”

They sprang apart like scolded cats. “We were just –”

Mercilessly, she cut Al off. “I’m sure you were. Now hurry up and get out here. I’m not having you two keeping me up all night again.”

 

* * *

 

The route they took to reach the road took them quite a way out into the desert. Unused as she was to traversing sand, Noah struggled to keep up with their guide. Julinka forged ahead with, if not speed, then with consistency and determination. Al managed to keep more or less equal distance from each, sometimes dropping back to help Noah over a particularly difficult dune, sometimes speeding up to ask Julinka how much further they had to go.

The way she reacted to the repeated question, by pausing briefly, sighing and shaking her head, made Noah think Al was beginning to annoy her. Probably . . . or . . . no! She beat against the tide of uncertainty, mouth setting in a determined line. If she kept second guessing everything she saw, she would only be making it worse. Like her guilt, what had happened was something she had to live with.

The price of choosing to keep on living. Ed had called it that once, during one of his bouts of melancholy not long after Alfons’ death.

The road finally came into sight after an hour’s trudging. By then, night had well and truly fallen and the waiting truck was just a dark shape on the horizon, blotting out the starlight. They climbed towards it, Julinka calling out a soft ‘hullo’. It was returned in kind by a familiar voice. Amantius offered a hand to the old lady but she batted it aside. Noah was more grateful when Al made the same gesture to her.

“I thought you were going to distract the Scarred Men,” Al said when they were all standing on the road.

“I was,” Amantius agreed, “But Delmar asked to take my place and I think he was in a more suitably distracting frame of mind.”

“These them, then?” A short, squat man appeared around the side of the truck and surveyed the newcomers.

“Just these two,” Julinka answered with a wave, “I’ve no business in a big city at my age.”

“Our loss, darlin’, our loss,” the driver said with a wink, “OK then, young sir, if you wouldn’t mind helpin’ get the last of these crates down to this hole the clerical gentleman’s provided us with, I’d be much –”

The darkness split open in a blaze of electric light. There was a noise, not unlike that of someone drawing a knife out of a sheath.

“Don’t bother, _vir_ ,” Zaniel said, stepping up onto the roadway, “They’re not wanted here.”

 

* * *

 

Al counted four, including their leader. One was holding the electric lantern, the other two had drawn long knives and Zaniel stood at their head, empty handed. Letting his muscles loosen, he eased into a ready stance, eyes flicking back and forth as he fixed everyone’s position in his mind. Noah was a little behind him, Julinka to his left, the driver caught in front of his truck and Amantius . . .

Amantius was putting himself in the Scarred Men’s path, staff planted defiantly upright before him. Zaniel paused mid-step and lifted a warning finger. “Don’t be silly.” He smiled his nasty little smile. “Did you really think you could get round us with old tricks? I grew up running Amestrian blockades. I know all the dodges. But I’m not unreasonable.” Gesturing for the knife men to move to flank the truck with one hand, he held the other out to the truck driver. “We’ll load your truck back up for you. You can take everything back where it came from.” His eyes lighted on Julinka and once again the smiled inched wider. “And you can take the old whore with you. I’m sure she’ll make you very happy.”

Al sensed Julinka bristling, but kept his attention on the Scarred Men. The one nearest had his knife levelled at them, ready to stab. The other had moved out of sight, around towards the back of the truck. He quickly estimated how long it would take him to get back into view. Long enough, but there were still Zaniel and the lantern carrier to worry about.

“Just stand back, brother priest,” the scarred man was saying, “and no one need even get hurt.”

Amantius stood very still for a moment. Then he lowered his staff. Zaniel nodded approvingly.

His fist caught the priest in the gut and all the air went out of him with a _wooph_. The staff clattered to the ground and Amantius collapsed beside it, curling into a ball.

“No one I like, anyway,” Zaniel clarified smugly.

Al was already moving. He dived at the nearest Scarred Man’s knife arm, jerking sideways to avoid a defensive slash, and drove his elbow into the man’s side. As he cried out in pain, Al darted behind him and kicked him hard in the back of the knees. The man toppled and Al's foot came crushingly down on his knife hand. In his head, Al began counting down from six.

Five. He kicked the knife out into the sand. Four. He sprang away from the groaning heap and towards Zaniel. Three. Two. He sidestepped a vicious punch and got a tight hold on the back of Zaniel’s tunic. One. The other knife man reappeared, hurrying back. With all his strength, Al swung and heaved Zaniel at him. The older man pitched into his friend and they both staggered, giving Al all the time he needed to scoop up Amantius’ staff.

This left him standing over the priest’s stunned, groaning form, caught between two sets of opponents, but he was armed and he’d thrown them off balance. It was a start. Now he just had to keep their attention on him. As long as they were fighting him, they weren’t going to hurt the others.

Zaniel regained his footing and gave an angry shout of command. The lantern bobbed and a shadow passed across the light. Al glanced sideways and saw the Scarred Man who’d been carrying it moving towards him, drawing his own knife. Seeing this momentary distraction, the man standing beside Zaniel seized the opportunity and charged.

Al flicked up the end of the staff and swung it into his attacker’s face. Predictably, he swerved to avoid it. Equally predictably, this left him wide open for the other end to smack him on the ear as Al spun neatly on his heel. Seeing Knife Man Number Two reeling back, clutching at his skull, Lantern Carrier became a lot more wary. He edged around an invisible circle, keeping well out of reach. So Al left him to edge and leapt at Zaniel.

The Ishbalan swore as he saw the teenager coming and weaved clumsily under his blows. He lashed out with punches and kicks of his own, swearing again as his knuckles connected with the staff. The crunch of boots on scattered sand alerted Al to Lantern Carrier’s approach and he ducked away, sweeping the space behind him as he went. A shock through the wood and a short cry told him he’d gotten lucky.

Pausing for breath, he took stock. Zaniel was glaring at him, cradling his hand. Lantern Carrier was rubbing at his shoulder. Knife Man Two had recovered enough to have his weapon at the ready, although he did not look as if he was in a hurry to re-join the fight. Knife Man Number One was just getting shakily to his feet. Of Noah, Julinka and the driver, there was no sign.

He took Knife Man Two down first, sending the blade spinning from his hand, winding him with a well-placed stab and clouting him hard on the back of his skull. Lantern Carrier tried to attack him from behind again, and again Al swatted him away. This time, he followed through and sent the man – who was Madron – flying. He landed hard and stayed down. Knife Man One did likewise when his back was used as a springboard.

Al rebounded off the truck’s radiator and came down face to face with Zaniel. He caught his breath and hefted the staff menacingly. “Harder to hit someone who thinks it’s OK to hit back, isn’t it?” he asked the Scarred Man.

Zaniel’s face twisted into an extremely ugly expression. His arm shot up and an unmistakable click cut through the night air. “I don’t know what the _inferi_ you are,” he snarled along the barrel of the revolver, “but you are _dead_.”

“I’m Alphonse Elric,” Al corrected, his stomach back-flipping, “and I’m not afraid of you.”

“El . . . ric . . .” Zaniel repeated, rage giving way to disbelief, which rapidly dissolved back into rage, “ _Elric_?!”

He was going to fire and Al knew he was not going to be fast enough to stop him. All he could do was hope that he would be fast enough to get out of the way –

A slender arm snaked around Zaniel’s neck and pressed a knife against his carotid artery. He froze, disbelieving, his fingers reflexively tightening. Julinka’s gnarled, powerful hands jolted his arm upwards and the bullet zinged over Al’s head.

“Let go,” Noah ordered in a quavering whisper, pressing the stolen knife a little harder against his skin, “ _Let go_.”

A couple of seconds stretched painfully. Lips tightly pressed together, Zaniel released the gun. Julinka caught and unloaded it distastefully.

“There are twenty more of us at the camp,” Zaniel stated flatly, “I told them to do what they wanted to whichever God-fearing fool came to ‘keep us busy’ and to come and find me once they were done.” He lifted his eyebrows as the strain of an engine wound up the road from the direction of the town. “That’ll be them now.”

“Ishbala . . . forgive you . . .” Amantius painfully pushing himself into a sitting position. Al offered to help him stand but the priest shook his head sadly. “No . . . I’ll . . . sit . . . if you don’t mind . . .”

“Pthah!” Zaniel spat, heedless of the blade still at his throat, “Where’s the strength of God in you, priest?”

“That’s enough from you,” the truck driver announced, appearing at the door of his cab with an antique shotgun in his hands. He swarmed down to the road and levelled it at the Scarred Man. “It’s alright, darlin’, you can let go of ‘im now.”

Noah eased the knife away and hurriedly got out of Zaniel’s reach. He made no move to grab her, merely tilted his head to listen to the approaching engine with another of his smiles.

Al strode over to him. “Call them off,” he demanded, “Why would you want to stop people helping Ishbal anyway? That’s crazy –”

“Wasting your breath, boy,” Julinka told him, gently patting him on the arm, “He’s not listening. Doesn’t matter, anyways,” she added, eyes glinting, “He’s got a surprise coming.”

On cue, a car roared phlegmatically into the light and Al recognised it instantly as the one he’d seen in town earlier. The young man who’d been working on it was in the driving seat and Delmar was sitting bolt upright on the passenger’s side, the butcher and a couple of workmen crammed together behind them. The vehicle had barely come to a halt before Delmar leaped out with a cry, dashing to kneel by Amantius’ side. The injured man put his arms around his fellow priest, briefly but emphatically embracing him.

Looking from them to Zaniel, Al felt undisguised glee at the expression the Scarred Man was now wearing.

“How . . . ?” Noah wondered.

“I might have mentioned to one or two that I thought Brother Delmar might need a bit of watching this evening,” Julinka said, with considerable satisfaction.

“When . . . when you checked if the coast was clear?”

“That’s right, girl, that’s right.” The old woman turned and pulled the two travellers away from the rest of the Ishbalans, who were busily rounding up the crumpled Scarred Men. She nodded at the truck. “Two of you best be getting along, before people start asking questions.”

“But –”

“You expecting a parade, boy? S’good work you did here but you’re still who you are. Now get in while I have a word with the man who makes it go.”

She trundled off to collar the driver. Al glanced exasperatedly at Noah, who shrugged helplessly.

“Well, I guess we’d better – oh!” He stopped and handed the staff back to Amantius. “Sorry about . . . there wasn’t anything else to . . .”

The priest, now standing with Delmar’s support, took it from him calmly. “I might not approve of injuring these misguided men quite so . . . much, but I don’t doubt that you were acting to protect the rest of us. And this is just a piece of wood. It does not bear the sin.”

“Err . . . right. But thank you. For helping us, I mean.”

Delmar grunted dubiously but Amantius put out his hand. “You are welcome.”

“And if you ever need help again,” Al said as he shook it, “if there’s anything I can do for you –”

“Great heavens, boy.” Julinka had returned, the driver sent scurrying around to hurriedly heave the remaining crate off his truck. “That’s a big promise to make.”

“Yes. But I mean it. If you need me . . .” He hesitated. “You can – you’ll be able to find me in Resembool. The Rockbell house.”

“And you’ll find us where you left us,” Julinka replied with laughter in her eyes, “Now get going, both of you.” She patted Al’s arm again and kissed Noah’s forehead. “Remember me to Central if you ever go back there.”

And with that, she shooed them towards the waiting truck.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Lest it be forgotten (and I really didn't get a chance to do anything with it in the last story), Al is a better martial artist than Ed.


	10. The Engineers

He was not entirely surprised when he traced the sounds of enthusiastic maintenance back to their source. A couple of weeks had been more than enough to satisfy him that his travelling companion was a machine-obsessed workaholic. Not that he’d any great doubts about that to begin with, but it was always nice to be sure about such things.

Slipping into the barn through the half-open doors, he took a long, calculating look at the semi-dismantled tractor and the two, overall-covered legs sticking out from under it. Then, shaking his head, he made his way around to the other side, squatted down and peered under. “You know, most auto-mail mechanics stop at fixing their patients’ _limbs_.”

An upside-down face stared back at him blankly.

“I mean,” he went on, “you keep going round souping-up every bit of farm machinery you meet, people are going to start expecting the rest of us to be all-purpose fix-everythings as well. And I work hard enough as it is, thank you very much.”

Blue eyes rolled mockingly. “This isn’t work, this is fun!”

He sighed and brushed a strand of red hair across his forehead. “For you, Rockbell, for you. The rest of us have better things to do with our time off.”

The girl under the tractor returned her attention to the bolts she had been undoing. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

He shrugged. “Like drinking. Dancing. Spending time not smelling like an oily rag.”

“Sounds boring!” she retorted cheerfully, liberating a large chunk of the engine and carefully easing it out into the open.

Standing up, he leaned over the bonnet. “So you wouldn’t be interested in coming to the party in the village inn this evening then? You know, the one to celebrate there _being_ a village inn again? Which is, you know, handy, since if we’d arrived a couple of days ago, we’d have had nowhere to stay . . .”

She already had the whatever-it-was in half a dozen pieces. Tilting her head back, she looked up at him, feigning wide-eyed innocence beautifully. “Why, Jon Dodds . . . are you asking me out to a dance?”

“Just to save you from yourself, Rockbell, just to save you from yourself.”

Laughing, she tossed him a spanner. “Then get the radiator off this wreck. I promised I’d have it cleaned up and working by tomorrow.”

“Oh joy.” Jon grimaced. “You and your promises. Now we’ll both turn up looking like grease monkeys.”

“Looking like the grease monkeys we are, you mean?”

“Don’t you bring common sense into this!”

Grumbling melodramatically, which made her laugh even louder, he knelt and began to unfasten the bolts that held the radiator on.

 

* * *

 

Dancing had never been one of Winry’s strong suits. In fact, she couldn’t remember going to a proper dance with music and everything since she was ten. Drinking was another matter. As a young apprentice mechanic in Rush Valley, it went without saying that she had had considerable practice at it. Being one of the few young _female_ apprentices altered things a bit, of course: most of what she drank, she didn’t have to pay for. Paninya frequently accused her of being shamelessly mercenary about wiling alcohol out of impressionable young men, to which she retorted that if they were always trying to wile it into her, they only had themselves to blame. She didn’t do anything to them they didn’t try to do to her. Well, nearly. A string of spectacular bruises and minor concussions (none of them her own) might have been brought up as evidence of some inequality in the equation, but surely that just proved she knew how to take care of herself.

But drinks after work were one thing. An actual party, where you were expected to have fun and dress up nice and not spend the whole evening talking about the torque/stress ratio of ginglymus motors . . . that she was out of practice at. As far as she could remember, the last party she’d been to had been Elysia Hughes’ last birthday and that hardly counted, since she had known most of the people there. This time, there would only be Doddie and a handful of grateful patients among crowds of strangers.

Which was fine. They were Dominic’s patients really, of course – and she was never going to get over how many he had scattered throughout the country – but check-ups had earned her a lot of praise, not to mention the title of ‘the prettier one.’ And Doddie was . . . Doddie. He’d apprenticed with Mr Garfiel across the street about half a year before she’d come to work in Rush Valley full time and he’d been one of the people who’d shown her the ropes of the town outside the workshop. He existed in a state of perpetual mock-exasperation (although when it came to Mr Garfiel, it wasn’t so mock-) directed at pretty much everything and could make moaning about the day’s workload very, very funny. They met every now and again in the Rush Valley cafés, which opened early to get the mechanics their morning caffeine fix as soon as possible, and when he’d learnt that she was going back East to help out with her Grandma’s clinic, he’d offered to accompany her some of the way. His family lived in East City and he was going back to make sure they were all right after the earthquakes. Predictably, their respective employers had taken advantage of the situation and gifted them with long lists of check-ups they could conduct along the way, most of which would have meant serious detours if the general havoc wreaked upon the railways hadn’t made those detours the only possible route.

It was nice to have someone to talk to on the journey. She’d thought about inviting Paninya along with her, but Dominic’s work-load had put pay to that. She hadn’t seemed too disheartened about being stuck running errands for the foreseeable future, especially when Winry told her about Doddie’s offer. In fact, she’d been positively enthusiastic about the news, nudging and winking as if her life depended on it. She’d be terribly disappointed when nothing happened, Winry thought as she quickly washed her arms down in the little water-closet next to her room at the inn. Doddie had been his usual garrulous self all the way from Rush Valley and there just being the two of them didn’t seem to have made any difference to how he acted around her. Not that she’d expected it to. She looked at herself briefly in the scrap of mirror above the basin. Straw-coloured hair roughly brushed into some semblance of neatness and held out of her eyes with a grubby bandanna. Dark bags under said eyes caused by late nights, early starts and too many uncomfortable means of transport. The faintest hint of the axel grease that had been painted in two neat smears down her left cheek. Yeah, _exactly_ the kind of look that made her worry about unwanted attention from boys.

She made one last attempt to scrub the mark off her cheek, gave up and tossed the flannel onto the edge of the basin. Throwing a shirt on over the top she usually wore while working, she headed for the door, the stairs and the sounds of the party.

 

* * *

 

Mustang smothered a yawn as he waited for the doctor to dig through the file on his desk. It wasn’t particularly late but, as Hawkeye was repeatedly pointing out, he needed a decent night’s sleep soon or he would collapse. He had been wounded, repeatedly, and had not slept in a proper bed for several days. His ability to function solely on the back of many mugs of coffee was starting to wear out.

But next to a certain blonde inconvenience, he didn’t really feel justified in complaining.

“Mr Elric is a remarkably lucky young man,” the doctor said at last, tugging thoughtfully on his moustache, “Remarkably lucky indeed.”

“I’m sure that is not the word _he_ would use,” Mustang replied, leaning an arm on the desk, “But he’s going to live then?”

“Oh, he’ll certainly live. He should never have come so far in that state, of course, but we managed to catch the infection just in time. Not the easiest case for a newly recovered medical alchemist but Ransome did a first rate job. Still . . .”

Mustang arched an eyebrow at the word. “I take it this isn’t going to be an entirely optimistic prognosis?”

“Frankly, General, no.”

The doctor pressed the papers flat and cleared his throat. He did not look at Mustang as he spoke. “Mr Elric has, obviously, suffered severe physical trauma. Most of the injuries are relatively minor in themselves but together, they’ve taken their toll. Major exertion in the near future is completely out of the question. But . . . the auto-mail. Whatever destroyed the prostheses put an incredible amount of stress on the connection ports. As you’ve seen, they were virtually disintegrated and we had to remove most of the remaining external components ourselves, to prevent further damage. But it’s the sub-dermal structure that really worries me . . . the connections to his skeleton have been severely compromised – and, for all the evident skill in their construction, they must have been installed in a hurry. And there’s evidence of some very primitive components at the core which frankly has me baffled.” He trailed off and cleared his throat again. “My point is, if those ports are not completely removed and replaced from the ground up, I cannot guarantee that infection – serious infection – will not reoccur. As you know, General,” he added, looking up, “carrying around metal fragments inside you is a recipe for disaster.”

“So we need to get him an auto-mail mechanic as soon as possible,” Mustang concluded, drumming his fingers.

“Not just any mechanic, General.” The doctor waved at their surroundings. “An operation like this will take a great deal of skill and, frankly, I don’t know of anyone in Central with that degree of expertise. Certainly there’s no one currently on my staff who could do the job. And we certainly don’t have anything like the necessary facilities.”

Rubbing his chin, Mustang leant back in his chair. “I see. Is it safe to move him?”

“If great care is taken, I believe so,” the doctor replied cautiously, “But the main risk is aggravation of the remains of the ports. Any jolt could be extremely damaging.”

“Hm.” Mustang’s chair scraped backwards as he stood. “Thank you for your time, doctor. It seems I have a lot to get organised.”

“My pleasure,” the other man said, standing as well, “I’ll keep you appraised of the young man’s condition.”

Thanking him, Mustang stepped out of the poky little office and strode away along the corridor. Hawkeye fell into step beside him soundlessly. “What were the last reports of Miss Rockbell?” he asked.

“She left Rush Valley five days ago,” she told him, without needing to consult the folder she was carrying, “We have a list of places she was supposed to be visiting but with such a good head-start, she will probably have reached Resembool before we can catch up to her.”

‘We,’ of course, meant the inner circle of people they could trust. A full military alert would probably have caught her in no time flat, national disaster or no national disaster. But that was a little more extreme than Mustang was willing to risk just yet. “Then since we can’t bring Rhazes to the mole-hill, we’ll have to take the mole-hill to Rhazes.”

Hawkeye heaved her eyes skyward at his Edward-lack-of-height-thereof-mocking joke. “I take it he can be moved then, sir?”

“Yes. Now we just have to organise some sort of slow train to get him there without rattling him too . . . much . . .”

He stopped as a thought struck him. “Captain . . . are the Armstrong family in residence at the moment?”

“I believe so, sir. Their manor escaped serious damage during the earthquakes. Architectural stability passed down through the generations, I believe.”

Mustang rubbed his hands together. “Excellent. Time to make a heartfelt plea on behalf of an old friend of their son’s.”

“Colonel Armstrong is still in Lior,” Hawkeye pointed out.

“And his big sister is still in the North,” Mustang countered, “which gives me at least half a chance of pulling this off. Get me a car, please, captain. I have a house-call to make.”

 

* * *

 

It took Winry a little time to reach the corner table Doddie had appropriated. First, she had to ask the barkeeper where her friend was sitting. Then a farmer, whose leg had been locked solid until she's repaired it, scoped her up into a brief but energetic polka, all too happy to be able to move freely again. Parting from him as the band started up on another tune, she bumped into his wife who embraced her warmly and promised to have some scones for her in the morning.

She sat down next to Doddie with a relieved sigh.

“And now you have to get up again to buy me a drink,” he told her with a grin.

“And why would I want to do that?”

“Because I got oil all over me while serving as your slave all afternoon.”

She punched him on the shoulder. “Half an hour and you barely got your fingers dirty.”

He flopped back across the padded bench with an expressive gesture of wounded pride. “You’re heartless Rockbell, heartless.”

“Right, so go get me a drink or I’m stealing yours.”

With more theatrical muttering, he did as he was told, bringing her a glass of the local ale. She sipped at it experimentally and found that it wasn’t too bad at all. “Nice,” she commented.

“I thought so.” Doddie wriggled back into his seat. “You ever thought about working up north?”

“You said you were trying to save me from myself. Is talking about work really going to help that?”

“This is you, Rockbell. You have a limited repertoire of conversation.”

“Hey!”

“You saying it’s not true?”

“I’m saying you’re a tactless goon,” she retorted, cradling her glass.

“True. But if I’m going to skilfully ease you onto broader subjects, I need an opening. Got to get that out of the way or we’ll end up sitting in this corner all night talking about things no one else can understand.”

“I can hold a decent conversation most of the time!”

“Most of the time, you’re in Rush Valley.”

She snorted and sipped at the ale. “OK. No, I haven’t. I’ve never been further north than Central, so I’ve never thought about it much.”

“So where have you thought about?”

“I’m not sure . . . Rush Valley, obviously, but it’s too . . . dusty, really. I miss fields and trees. Then there’s Resembool, obviously. Granny won’t be able to run the clinic forever . . .” She frowned as she said that. It scared her to see the woman who had raised her getting slower and more tired every time she went home.

“Ah . . .” Doddie grinned. “Gonna be the next Pantheress of Resembool, huh?”

“Oh!” Winry groaned and blushed. “Wish I’d never found out about that!”

“I’m sure it’s meant to be a compliment.”

“Pft!” The sound summed up her thoughts on _that_. “Yeah, well . . . if I did take over there, I’d need another practice somewhere – so I could get to see more clients, get to do as many different types of operations as I could. Resembool’s too out in the sticks to get a lot of variety.”

“Oh, yeah,” Doddie murmured, tapping his nose, “The Rockbell Master Plan.”

“I just want to be the best auto-mail mechanic I can be,” she protested, “and for that, I need to see as many cases as I can.”

“Yeah, but two practices? That’s ambitious. You couldn’t do it alone. Need a partner.”

Shrugging, she took a swig of ale. “I haven’t thought it through that far yet. I want to learn all I can with Mr Dominic and there’s still a lot more of that.”

“Don’t doubt it,” he said round his own glass, “Man’s a genius.”

“So, d’you have any plans?”

He took his turn to shrug. “Same at the moment provided I don’t brutally murder Garfiel first. Beyond that . . . I don’t know. East’s a hole with a barracks in the middle. Rush Valley’s a hole full of sand and other mechanics. I kind of wanted to try Central but then I thought about, you know, the rent and the fact that it keeps disappearing down a hole . . .”

“You don’t want to live in a hole,” she summarised.

“Not really.”

“It’s the start of a plan, I guess.”

“S’what I thought,” Doddie agreed amiably, lifting his drink in a toast, “Here’s to starting plans. May they be many and fruitful.”

They chinked and drank.

“Know anything about art. Rockbell?” he asked after listening to the band for a moment or two, “Though if the phrase ‘no, but I know what I like’ passes your lips, I will have to kill you.”

“Is this what you call ‘skilfully easing me onto broader subjects’?” she wondered.

“Just answer the question.”

“No. Nothing,” Winry admitted, “You do?”

“Kinda hard not to when your dad runs the biggest gallery in East City.”

She blinked. “He does?” Doddie had never seemed as if he came from a particularly well off family. In fact, she’d always had the impression that he was a bit hard up.

“Runs, mind you.” He waved dismissively at the air. “Some big time banker owns the place, dad’s just the curator and . . . oh damn.”

She looked at him as he broke off. “What?”

“Oh . . .” He coloured and avoided her eye. “Nothing.”

Winry kicked him under the table.

“Ow! Ok, not nothing. I just remembered.”

“Remembered what?” She readied her foot again.

Doddie glanced up and down, very obviously checking for nearby blunt objects. “Something Paninya told me before we left . . . um . . .” He hesitated again, weighing up the possible consequences. “She gave me a list of topics to avoid if I didn’t want my block knocked off.”

“Did she now . . . ?” Winry made a note to misplace one of her friend’s feet the next time she did her maintenance. “What topics?”

“I don’t really want to, you know – ow – you wouldn’t want to – ow – since you’re about to twist my arm, she told me not to talk about family, the military or alchemy, in that order. I . . .” He paused once more, concern flitting across his narrow features. “Actually, I got the feeling it was less about me not getting my skull bashed in and more about not upsetting you. Which is obviously something I wasn’t planning on doing either –”

“It’s OK,” she told him, putting a hand reassuringly on his forearm, “I believe you. Paninya’s a bit . . . overprotective sometimes. Too many nights with me bawling on her shoulder. I’m not going to break down because you’re talking about your dad.”

“Oh. That’s good. Um.” Doddie looked down at the calloused fingers resting on his right wrist.

Winry followed his gaze and quickly took her hand away. They toyed with their drinks in silence for a while after that, neither quite looking at the other.

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Clapping his glass on the table, Doddie stood up. “Come on, Rockbell. I’m not sitting here blushing all night.”

“What?” she said, blankly.

“Dancing. You. Me. Music. Movement. Fun. Supposedly.”

“I’m . . . not very good . . . err . . .”

“Neither am I. First one to twenty squashed toes buys the next round.”

Winry looked from his hand, to the near-empty glass in hers, to his face with its mocking, laughing eyes. She put down the glass and took his hand. “You’re on.”

 

* * *

 

The expression Mustang wore as he strode down the steps in front of the Armstrong mansion was that of an especially smug cat that had just swallowed a particularly succulent canary.

“They agreed then, sir?” Hawkeye inquired as he bounced into the car’s backseat.

“Practically fell over themselves to do so,” he told her, “Anything for a close friend of their son’s and a hero of the people. The Armstrong’s private coach is at our disposal and being shunted onto the east-bound tracks as we speak. Fullmetal will ride home on top of the best suspension money can buy.”

“And . . . they’ve assured you they’ll be discrete?”

“But of course. Didn’t you know? **Discretion is a trait that has been passed down the Armstrong family for generations**!”

Hawkeye shifted the car into gear and headed for up the driveway. “It’s scary how well you do that, sir.”

He smiled contentedly. “I know. That’s not the best part, however. Apparently they received a telegram this morning from Alex. It said that they were to get word to me that an old acquaintance had come through Lior and that he’s heard all about that suit of antique armour we used to have standing around headquarters.”

Hawkeye blinked and glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. “Alphonse?”

“Who will no doubt be heading straight for home. Another day or two and we’ll have the complete set.”

“Apart from Edward’s double.”

She had to go and puncture his happy mood with that little pin, didn’t she? He deflated and leant an arm on the windowsill, propping up his chin on his fist. “Apart from Fullmetal’s double,” he echoed dejectedly.

 

* * *

 

They clambered up the stairs arm in arm, neither exactly drunk but both the wrong side of sober. The dancing had gone on past midnight, by which time the band were in their shirt-sleeves and Winry’s feet felt worn out. Despite his protests to the contrary, Doddie could dance quite well. Or, rather, he didn’t dance too badly. Certainly, she came out of it with less bruised toes than he did. Which had meant that she had been buying most of the drinks.

Doddie giggled as he missed his footing and nearly sent them both tumbling back downstairs, a proper and surprisingly high-pitched giggle. She prodded him in the ribs and he hiccuped, straightened as much as he could and hauled her up the last couple of steps. They tottered into the passage and came dramatically close to falling over in a heap before they righted themselves against the wall. Winry broke away from him and fumbled with the door to her room.

“The Pantheress of Resembool, defeated by a doorknob!” Doddie hollerred and he giggled again.

Glaring defiantly at him over her shoulder, she opened the door with a flourish. “Victory is mine,” she growled.

Harrumphing, she stepped inside and turned back to her companion. He had crossed the passage and was leaning round the door-frame, scrutinising the little room. “S’ bigger than mine,” he opined, “You’ve got a bed that isn’t a shelf in disguise.”

She chuckled, looking at it herself. It wasn’t as bad as some of the rooms she’d slept in but it wasn’t anything to write home about. “No, it’s a bench trying to look grown up.”

They both grinned broadly at the shared joke. Their grins faded. They avoided each other’s gaze.

“Well, night-night, Rockbell.” Doddie pulled away from the door, shoving his hands in his pockets. “See you in the morning.” He ambled off up the corridor, his gait placid and rolling. She watched him go and then slowly closed the door, putting her back to it. Confused thoughts about what she was going to tell Paninya flitted through her mind. Probably after she’d stolen the other girl’s foot and had her undivided attention. Family, the military and alchemy, in that order. Poor Doddie. He didn’t deserve a warning with all those heavy implications. Especially when it wasn’t really _necessary_ anymore. Of course she still cried sometimes about her parents. Of course she still disliked the military, in spite of all the friends she now had in it. And of course alchemy was a touchy subject. But she wasn’t about to clobber someone just for mentioning them all. Especially if she liked them. Especially if they made her laugh and let her dance with them without too much protest.

Shaking herself, she crossed – well, stepped over – the floor between the door and the bed and began to get ready for bed. She felt happy and content, the glow of the ale suffusing everything with a slight swaying warmth.

The only sour note, aside from wanting to dismantle Paninya for being ‘helpful’, was that old hatred of seeing people’s backs as they walked away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Doddie is made up - he's not even based on any of the other auto-mail mechanics to appear in FMA. Given that in the Anime, Winry *does* apprentice with Dominic, he fills the gap left for an apprentice to Garfiel.  
> \- Winry, I figure, was always going to adapt well to an environment stuffed with gear-heads and machine-freaks.  
> \- There is something deliciously satisfying about writing Mustang doing an Armstrong impression . . .


	11. Over the Threshold

Noah was dancing.

It took Al quite a while to notice, but she was. She probably had been for quite a while, out of his line of sight. He hadn’t meant to move ahead; it was simply that the closer they came to Resembool, the faster he wanted to get there. And when he looked back, her eyes had been half-closed and her feet had been shuffling hither and thither to a beat of a silent tune. He didn’t dare speak for fear of breaking the spell. The fields full of corn and wild flowers that flanked the dirt track rolled by under a cloud-filled sky, the sun peeking coyly out every few minutes. It was a pleasant day, not especially warm nor particularly cool, neither bright nor overcast. A day to be walking. And yes, perhaps, to be dancing.

Noah finally caught him looking and blushed, feet stumbling back into a normal pace. He smiled and shook his head vigorously. “Don’t stop.”

She returned a faint reflection of his smile and looked searchingly around her. Then she stopped and held her hands out a little way before her, closing her eyes fully and breathing in. “This is . . . better,” she said eventually, speaking quietly, “Out in the country . . . it’s always better. It’s . . . it was quieter. And it still is. I . . . I don’t mind it here.” Her eyes fluttered open again. “And it’s beautiful.”

Al nodded his agreement, sweeping their surroundings with an appraising glance. The countryside was achingly close to the farmland where he had grown up.

He turned back to Noah to find tears falling down her cheeks.

His first reaction, as usual, was to hug her but once again, something made him smother the impulse. Not guilt this time, he’d accepted that if she wasn’t going to blame him, beating himself up wouldn’t help her. No, there was something about the way she was standing that told him that, at least at that moment, she did not want human contact.

“I hated it.” She spoke before he could ask her what was wrong, her voice distant and quivering. “No one ever wanted to be near me. No one would touch me or let me touch them . . .” She shuddered. “Until I met Ed . . . and you . . . I wanted so much for it to be gone, so that people wouldn’t be so afraid of me. And now . . . I’m afraid of them! Because I won’t be able to find out what they’re really thinking, because I can’t tell if they’re . . . real any more!” Her face, streaked now, lifted towards the sky. “I’ve never had to trust my sight before. About what people are like. Now I have to and I don’t think I can.”

There. She had told him the heart of the problem. He finally had something to work with.

Al took Noah’s hand in his, feeling her flinch and draw away a little. Ruthlessly, he tightened his grip. “Do you trust your sight with me?” he asked, “Do you trust what you see here?”

He could see himself reflected in her eyes. She blinked to clear them. “Yes.”

“You’ve seen inside my head, brother’s head, Ivan and Dulsa’s heads – dozens of other people’s. And that’s given you something that no one else ever has. You know that you’re not the only real person in the world. Everyone else . . . everyone else just has to trust, to believe that that’s true. And that’s hard sometimes and sometimes it’s terrifying but we do it. And I know this is a new world and I know this must scare you but . . . but you’ll manage. Because I’ll be here and even if you can’t see what I’m thinking any more, you know I’m real.”

He drew her closer and, letting go of her hand, wrapped her in a bear hug. She stiffened momentarily at the contact then relaxed and, as she had in Ishbal, put her arms around him as well.

With no one to interrupt them, they stood like that for quite a while.

 

* * *

 

Winry left Doddie on the platform of a tiny station with the stationmaster’s marrows ripening out the back. She was taking the overnight train south to Resembool; he would catch the north-bound sleeper to East City, or as far it was able to get. They had to wait a bit before either train appeared and sat together on a well-kept bench, whiling away the time with comparisons of the tune-ups they had been doing.

Their conversation earned them some odd looks and it took Winry a while to work out why. Presumably not many of the residents of a little farming hamlet in the middle of the countryside had much hope of understanding why a pair of oil-stained young people would be grinning like loons at anecdotes delivered mainly using medical terms of five syllables or more. Yet another point on which life in the outside world differed from life in Rush Valley . . .

The whistle of the approaching south-bound train interrupted their flow.

Winry scrambled to her feet, dragging her toolbox and suitcase out from under the bench. Doddie leant back, stretched and yawned. “Guess this is it, Rockbell.”

“Looks like it.” She looked down at him and smiled. “Think you’ll be able to get to East without someone to tell you you’ve got the map upside down?”

“Hah, hah. I _was_ still unfolding it.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

They watched the train wheezing and clanking its way up the incline to the station, the setting sun bouncing off the black metal of the locomotive. Winry wondered if Doddie was admiring the simultaneous complexity and simplicity of the pistons and rods that drove it as well. Maybe that was just her projecting her own machine-head tendencies . . .

His foot bounced against her ankle. “Stand there ogling the engine like that and you’ll forget to get into one of those box-shaped things it’s pulling.”

She huffed and kicked him back, marching to the edge of the platform. The train came to a clattering stop, a guard swinging the nearest door open for her and heaving her cases aboard.

A shadow fell across the side of the carriage. Doddie had come up behind her. She turned her head and saw him looking at her with an unusual solemnity. “Safe journey, Rockbell,” he said, rubbing the back of his head, “Hope you have a good holiday.”

“Hardly a holiday. I’m supposed to be _working_.”

“A clinic in the middle of nowhere with half a dozen patients on its lists? Yeah, you’ll be working _really_ hard there, Rockbell.”

She rolled her eyes and made to climb aboard.

He punched her lightly on the back of the shoulder. “Seriously though. Have a good time and get back to the Valley in one piece.”

“You too.” She leaned back down the steps to whack him back. “I don’t want to see Mr Garfiel moping about the place because you’ve run off to be a painter. Or _with_ a painter.”

Crossing his heart extravagantly, he stepped aside to let the guard get by. Winry hurried to a seat and tapped on the glass, waving. Doddie waved back languidly. The guard’s whistle shrieked and the train jerked into motion again. The last glimpse she caught of her travelling companion was of him throwing himself back onto the bench, swinging his legs up and lying back with his eyes closed.

 

* * *

 

Dawn was creeping towards them. Noah could see it in the sky over the distant hills, a faint glow that promised to drive away the dark. She drew her shawl tight against the chill that still held sway over the little town, quickening her step to keep up with Al.

They had slept in a little run down hotel, paying for the room with the money that the mayor of Lior had given them. She smiled, remembering the exuberant reception he had given them. Al had nearly been squashed flat by the giant’s hug and had been left completely unable to resist the food and funds that had been forced upon him. Apparently understanding the urgency of their journey, Mr Armstrong had whisked them from the truck to the mayoral residence to the newly constructed (and even newly repaired) railway station, all the while lavishing praise on Al’s devotion to his family and heartily welcoming Noah to Amestris. They had ended up on a train in a sort of daze, neither entirely sure how they had got there.

From then on, they had been travelling from town to town, by train when that was possible, on foot when it was not. Al charged ahead, impatient to get over the horizon. She kept up as best she could. Sometimes she found herself dancing again. Sometimes he would slow and clap out a beat for her, his face lighting up as he saw the worry lifting away from her. But the urgency of the journey would always settle back over him and he would speed up again, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Or rather, she thought, on what was at the end of it.

She wondered if he was imagining that final stretch of road up to a yellow house on a hill, picturing the people waiting there for him – or maybe that there would be nothing there, that the people he loved would be gone . . .

It was a shock to discover that she was able to wonder about that without the despair swallowing her up again. Perhaps it was because she really did know how Alphonse Elric thought. Perhaps it was because of what he had said on the farm road. Perhaps it was simply that the quiet, empty countryside was enough to drive the darkness away.

When they arrived at the town’s station, Al went immediately into the phone booth, checking as he had at every station they had been to whether he could call Resembool. So far, neither option had proved possible. “But it’s not far now anyway,” he said, having joined her on the platform, “The next train should get us there by midday, the stationmaster says. It’ll be here in quarter of an hour, he said.” He paced up and down, clearly too agitated by the thought to just sit down and wait. Noah hunched her shoulders and leant against the wall of the ticket office, her mind wandering.

Her eyes fell on one of the porters, a middle-aged man heaving a milk churn onto a trolley. She tried to imagine what he must be thinking, to work out little things about him from how he looked and how he moved. He was stout; did that make him idle? The uniform he wore was rumpled; did that mean that no one cared about his appearance? His face, when he happened to glance in her direction, was vacant and devoid of interest, his jowls wobbling as he puffed and applied himself to the handle of the trolley. Queasiness overtook her as she was overcome by the conviction that he was nothing more than an animate doll, the fleshy features covering no sort of intelligence, their movements really nothing more than meaningless contortions –

“Noah . . .” Al’s voice snapped her out of it. He was right in front of her, concern and curiosity mingling in his eyes. “Do you . . . uh . . .” Abruptly, he took her by the hand. “Come with me.”

He led her off the platform and across the road, to the verge on the other side. Checking that no one was watching, he climbed up and knelt down in the grass, pressing his hands against the ground. “I think . . . yes. I think it’d be OK . . .” Lifting his hands up, he splayed his fingers for a moment, then clapped.

Electric light flared up as he touched the grass in front of him, shredding the plants and weaving something new in their place. When it had faded, a lumpy loaf of bread sat steaming gently on a patch of bare earth. Al picked it up gingerly, brushed it down and tore a chunk off the top. He tasted it tentatively. “Urgh.” He spat it out and tried to scrape his tongue clean. “Brother’s first time without a circle probably tasted better.”

Noah frowned slightly. “He . . . heated water, didn’t he?”

“Exactly.” Al flexed his fingers. “It feels strange. But _right_. Ed always said it was like the most natural thing in the world. How much do you remember of what you saw in our heads, Noah?”

The question startled her. When she answered it was hesitantly and with not a little uncertainty. “A lot of it . . . sometimes it’s clear, as if I was really there, as if it had only just happened . . . other times . . .” She shrugged eloquently.

“What about the Gate?” he asked, “Everything he – everything I – learnt from it?”

“Ah.” An inkling of where he was going crept over her. “Flashes of it. I can remember him using it, doing particular things . . .”

“ _How_ he did them?”

“Ah . . . yes. I think so.”

He licked his lips. “Can you . . . would you . . . ?”

A thrill of anticipation ran up her spine. Possibilities hovered tantalising before her. “I . . .” She looked down at her hands. “I don’t know.” Symbols and arrays flickered through her mind, the echoes of someone else’s learning and understanding. If she reached deeper into them, if she fixed on a particularly vivid recollection of how Ed did it then . . . maybe . . .

Trembling slightly, she brought her hands together. A surge of pins and needles curved through her arms, until they were beating at the inside of her palms. Shocked by the unfamiliar sensation, she broke the circle and nearly gave up the attempt – but at the last moment, she had enough control to drive her palms into the ground. Her breath caught as the world flared white-blue. For an instant, she saw patterns in the light, saw with Ed’s eyes the weft and weave of the soil and the roots, understood how it fitted together, how it could be unmade and reconstructed into something new. But then the memories began to blur and the patterns no longer quite made sense. She could feel the alchemy slipping away from her –

She tore her hands away. The glow of the reaction dissipated and the earth stopped turning inside out and locked solid in a tableau of strange shapes, not-quite hands reaching up to grasp thin air. Al stared at them and the little crater from which they protruded. He touched one of the larger ones and it crumbled at the pressure. Noah followed the rain of dirt with her eyes, her body shaking.

“Wow . . .” Al breathed, “I thought . . . probably should have tried that with a circle but . . . but wow! It actually worked! You can do alchemy!”

“Yes,” she agreed weakly.

“And – Gate alchemy too! Well, almost. But with some training, if you actually learnt the basics and understood everything that you’d seen then –” He stopped, suddenly aware that he was babbling and that she was not responding. “Oh . . . Noah . . . I . . .”

She stopped him before he could say he was sorry again. “It’s all right.” And astonishingly enough, she found she was telling the truth. “I’m fine. It’s just . . .” And she smiled. “Equivalent.”

 

* * *

 

The refreshment trolley woke her sometime after dawn. Winry gratefully accepted a cup of tea and sat nursing it for a while, watching the countryside stream past. The carriage was mostly empty, the few passengers either still asleep or staring out of the windows as well.

With nothing else to occupy her mind, Winry began to think about what Doddie had said at the party.

What _was_ she going to do when she had finished training? Obviously, there was the Resembool clinic. But she knew that wouldn’t be satisfying enough, not after the heady day-to-day life in Rush Valley. She’d get _bored_ and she had never handled boredom very well. On the other hand, she did feel that she had a responsibility in her home town. There might be one or two other mechanics down there but they weren’t Rockbells and Rockbell auto-mail was the best, bar none. It wouldn’t be fair to abandon all the people wearing it and let them make do with second-rate maintenance.

So, two practices? Could she really pull that off? She’d need help. A partner, to share the work-load, someone she could trust. Maybe even someone she had trained . . . No. That was too long term. She had to be practical. She’d need to work in a clinic somewhere busy, somewhere that paid well, to bide her time until she had enough funds to think seriously about a project on such a scale. Perhaps she could find somewhere in Central . . . once they’d finished rebuilding again, of course. General Mustang was always saying that he would be willing to help her out if she ever decided to move there – and she really wished she could let him do something for her, if only to stop him edging around her so much. She couldn’t stand the way he was always so afraid to talk to her, even after so long.

Thoughts of the General and Central drew her onto the subject of the earthquakes. Back on to it, really. She'd been thinking about them on and off since they had happened, hardly surprising given the level of damage and the number of new patients that they had caused. Everyone said it was connected to the alchemy plague but no one really seemed to know how that could be. Some transmutation big enough to shake the world? A big underground experiment? An Aerugan secret weapon? The theories ranged from the plausible to the ridiculous and Winry heard them all repeated in every tavern and bar in Rush Valley. Without being able to say why, she didn’t believe any of them.

Whenever someone started talking about it, all she could see was the image of massive airships boiling out of the ground. And _that_ brought back a familiar figure in strange clothes, clambering over rubble . . .

The tea had cooled enough to drink. She did so, savouring the taste. Familiar landmarks began to appear on the landscape and she settled back to wait out the last leg of the journey. After a while, and despite the tea, she fell into a light doze, the rhythmic shuddering of the carriage gentle enough to do little more than lull her back towards sleep.

It was with a jolt that she came to. The guard’s voice was echoing through the coach, announcing that this was Resembool, last call for all passengers alighting at Resembool.

Winry rocketed towards the door, bag and tool box swinging wildly. She needn’t have panicked. The train had only just stopped and the enthusiasm with which she exited probably looked very strange. She slowed down and sheepishly made her way to the station exit at a more sedate pace, hoping that no one had taken too much notice. Since the only member of staff in evidence was a young porter who seemed to be falling asleep against his broom and the only other passengers getting off were three elderly hens in a crate, they probably hadn’t.

The road up the hill looked just the same as ever. The only signs of serious damage she could see as she walked along were a few tumbled walls and one or two telegraph posts that needed straightening. It was a relief to see that the place was all right with her own eyes. Being told that everything was OK was never as reassuring as finding out first hand.

She saw no one but cows on the way up, or at least no one close enough to talk to. A few of the lumbering animals raised their heads as she passed and she greeted them with cheerful pointlessness. It was good to be home.

The yellow house looked exactly the same as ever. The paint was a bit more faded and cracked and it looked like some of the shutters had been recently replaced but everything else was right where it should have been. She mounted the steps to the porch, listening for any sound that would indicate whether Granny was with a patient. When she had satisfied herself that all was quiet, she flung the front door open and called out. “Hey! It’s me!”

“Winry?” came the answering call as she dropped her tool box by the table, “Just a minute.”

Pinako Rockbell emerged from the workshop a moment later, wiping her hands on her apron. Winry sped across the room to hug the tiny woman and was firmly hugged back. After a few seconds, Pinako held her granddaughter out at arms-length and looked her up and down appraisingly. “You look well,” she acknowledge, before inspecting Winry’s hands, “Hmm. File or screwdriver?”

“Hacksaw.” Winry eyed the fresh scar running over her left knuckles. “Fell off the bench when I was looking for something on the floor.”

Granny tutted. “Well, at least it didn’t do too much damage.”

It was an old ritual, going back to when Winry had first begun spending a significant amount of time working alone. ‘A mechanic’s hands are their life,’ Granny had said, ‘and the lives of their patients. You break them and you’ll be no good to anyone.’

She let go. “And you might look well but you need a good wash.”

After six days on the road, Winry could only agree.

“The water’s hot,” Pinako said, heading towards the kitchen, “I’ll get you something to eat when you’re done.”

Side-tracked briefly by Den, who came loping in from the yard to trace the familiar voice and scent, Winry made her way up to the bathroom and spent a very enjoyable half hour making up for all the failings of the inns and hotels between Rush Valley and Resembool. Afterwards, dressed in fresh, clean clothes from her old wardrobe, she sat on her bed and contentedly towelled her hair, drinking in everything that was familiar about the room. Still the same furniture, the same bed spread, the same faded plans taped to the wall . . .

Getting up, she went over to the work table and studied the blueprints that hung in pride of place above it. She had never gotten around to getting them framed – had never really seen the point, if she was honest. But while they were old and dog-eared and she winced at some of the inadequacies of the design, it was comforting to have them there. A reminder of the moment when she had really proved that she was good at what she did, of the effort she had invested in those first pieces of real auto-mail. She smoothed the paper flat against the wall and ran a finger along the few lines of text that described what she had so painstakingly drawn. All that work, all that dedication and care, all for someone else’s benefit. Sure, people paid for auto-mail but most of the money was for the materials and the surgery. The planning, the late nights spent going over the designs again and again and again, ironing out flaw after insignificant flaw – that was different. The labour of dedication and duty and devotion by which ideas were transmuted into pictures was paid for only by the satisfaction of a job well done and the pleasure of seeing someone restored to full mobility. But even that wasn’t why you did it. You did it because it was necessary, because you could do no less.

A brief twinge of nostalgia took her back to the moment she had finished that first arm. She had been so _proud_ , so happy that she had managed to create something from the ground up, all on her own. Since then, she had built dozens of limbs – not a few of them for one particular patient – and had felt a warm, satisfied glow with each of them. But that first time . . . that had been something special.

Den began barking downstairs. Winry heard the front door open and the murmur of voices. Curious, she stepped out onto the balcony but only caught a brief glimpse of two people coming inside. They seemed to be in a hurry. Pinako’s voice echoed through the house, calling for Den to be quiet and telling the newcomers she would be with them in a moment. Curious, and suspecting that someone needed something fixing before their wife or boss found out, Winry gave her hair a last vigorous rub, threw the towel on to the bed and hurried to the landing.

At the sound of something crashing loudly to the floor, she broke into a run, taking the stairs two at a time.

She burst into the living room to find Granny clutching weakly at the kitchen door-jamb, a teapot shattered at her feet. Two people stood on the other side of the room, in the disarray that comes of running hard uphill. One was a young woman, tall and dark, both of skin and hair. She was dressed like an Ishbalan, with a shawl and a long dress, and didn’t seem to know where to look, her gaze darting from place to place nervously.

The other was a man, taller, wearing worn clothes, his hair tied back in a short ponytail. His skin was dark as well but the colour was streaked and worn away, revealing lighter tones. His expression was veering between elation and mortification, his eyes switching from Pinako to the broken pot, his hands rising in apology.

He turned at the clatter of Winry’s feet and his face lit up, so much so that it really did look as if he were about to start glowing. She stared back at him blankly for a second, wondering why he looked so familiar.

“Winry!” he cried and his voice full of warmth and joy, as if the sight of her was the most wonderful thing in the world.

And then she knew exactly who he was.

 


	12. Journey's End At Last

The first five minutes were a babble of excited questions and confused half-explanations, in which no questions were answered and nothing was explained. Pinako finally cut it off by pointedly asking if they expected the teapot to clear itself up.

That restored some sort of order. Winry and Al disentangled themselves from one another, the latter swiftly returning the pot to its original shape with a simple clap of his hands. That done, the old woman ordered them all to sit down around the table, catch their breath and take things slowly. Retrieving her pipe, she watched Al out of the corner of her eye, comparing the young man with the child she had last seen striding off over the hill beside a boy with two auto-mail limbs. The wrong boy. And when Winry had come back from chasing after him, she had said that they would never see the Elric brothers ever again, had been so convinced of it that she had cried herself to sleep. Pinako had simply felt dull acceptance at the loss of more faces to the confines of fading photographs.

And yet here was Alphonse Elric, looking his full age, a striking dark haired girl at his side.

Now _there_ was an explanation that Pinako wanted to hear.

Once they were all sat down, she joined them, chewed the stem of her pipe and waited. Al looked her in the eye and asked if they had heard from Ed.

“E-Ed . . . ?” Winry repeated, tremulously.

Pinako could not say she was especially surprised by the question. She answered it negatively and leaned back to listen to his story.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t like the look of those clouds.” He knew that voice. It sounded like it was coming from a long way away.

“You never like the look of anything involving water.” Another voice. Another man. It was a man, wasn’t it? Yes . . . had to be.

“As I recall, the Rockbell house is some distance from the station,” the first voice replied testily, “It will hardly do Fullmetal any good if we have to make the journey in the middle of a squall.”

Fullmetal. That was him, wasn’t it? He was Fullmetal. The Fullmetal Alchemist.

The thought drifted up to the surface of his fuzzy consciousness that it had been a long time since he’d called himself that in the confines of his own head. That it had been a long time since he had been an alchemist. That it would be nice to be that all the time again now.

Rockbell house. There was an image. A house on a hill, with a sign hanging from the eaves. A tough little old hag who never turned away anyone in need of help. And someone else, someone with long straw-coloured hair and blue eyes who always seemed to be able to pull blunt instruments out of thin air.

Al. Where was Al? He needed to find him, needed him there at his side. Winry was waiting for them. She’d be pissed if they weren’t both there and she’d be pissed off enough at the fact that he’d broken his auto-mail again, even if it wasn’t really his fault – how was he supposed to have known that Scar would be able to do that? He should have been faster though – if he’d been faster, Envy would never have got the drop on them and Al would still be human, he’d never have been turned into the Stone and Dante would never have come after them and Teacher wouldn’t have trashed them for being idiots and it was all his fault and –

“Sssh.” Someone pressed a cool hand against his forehead. Like Mom used to do when he got sick. “His temperature hasn’t gone up, sir,” a woman’s voice said, “I think he’s just having bad dreams.”

“I wonder if he ever has any other kind.” The first voice, sounding oddly contemplative – why would that be odd? Oh, yeah. That voice should be smirking. That was what it did best. It shouldn’t sound like it cared. That was bad for it.

“How much longer do you think we’ve got to go?” the other man’s voice asked.

He – the Fullmetal Alchemist, brother of Alphonse Elric, whose fault it all was – drifted back into the darkness of sleep before he could hear the answer.

 

* * *

 

Winry concluded that she wasn’t surprised that the explanations ended in an argument. If it had been Ed rather than Al, she’d have known from the start but, in his own, quieter, kinder way, the younger Elric was just as stubborn and hard-headed as his brother.

“What do you mean, no?” he asked incredulously, staring at Pinako as if she had just grown an extra head.

“I mean no,” Granny answered firmly, “You are not going to Central.”

“Ed lost his auto-mail,” Al repeated, his eyes blazing with concern and determination – and Winry clenched her fists under the table again, fighting a lump in her throat, “He was badly injured and I have no idea where he would have come into this world. And General Mustang and Hawkeye, they’re out there too. I have to get to the people who can help me find them, and they’re all in Central. That’s where the General would go – maybe even where Ed would try and get to – I have to go there.”

“And I’m telling you that you are not going there,” Pinako told him, something far harder than determination glinting behind her glasses, “You are not charging off to get yourself lost again so soon.”

“I have to!” Al’s voice rose and Winry was startled by the fact that it _didn’t_ break, that it stayed at the deeper pitch that it seemed to have grown into, “I have to find them! They need me – Ed needs me!”

“And what use will you be in that state, hmm?”

Al followed the jerk of Granny's pipe, looking down at his dusty clothes, his streaked skin, his battered shoes as if he couldn’t see why his turning up at Central Command looking like that would be any problem whatsoever.

“You need a wash, new clothes and probably, knowing you boys,” the old woman added with a knowing smirk, “a good meal or two. And then, maybe, you’ll be in a fit state to mount a nation-wide search.”

“I don’t have time!” Al was on his feet and heading for the door. “It’s already taken too long to get back here. Anything could have happened to him!”

Winry caught him by the collar just as he was reaching for the handle. He yelped, probably more than a little astonished to find that she had the physical strength to actually haul him backwards. “And where would you go in Central?” she asked, scowling, “Do you even know if the people you knew are still there?”

“Yes! There's Lieutenant Ross! And you must know where everyone is, so you can –” From the suddent shift in his expression, he realised that he had played straight into the Rockbells’ hands precisely three seconds after Winry did.

“Slow down and I might tell you,” she said, “Now come back and think things through.”

“A better idea would be to take the clothes brush from the corner out into the backyard and get yourself looking a bit more presentable,” Granny said around the stem of her pipe.

Cowed by mechanics’ logic, Al did as she said, retrieving the brush and drifting reluctantly towards the back door. Pinako harrumphed and went back into the kitchen, muttering about getting lunch ready but very obviously going to keep watch over him and make sure he didn’t try hopping the fence. Winry, her hands on her hips, was left alone in the living room.

Or rather, left alone with Noah.

Winry wasn’t at all sure what to make of the other girl. She'd hardly said a word since she and Al had arrived, barely doing more than nodding during his story. In fact, she was so quiet it was almost hard to remember that she was there. Which was surprising, because she was really very beautiful, so much as to make Winry acutely aware of the callouses covering her own hands and the wiry muscles that kept her frame from anything resembling elegance.

She sat down again, opposite the girl from another world, and smiled. “Stubborn as mules, aren’t they?”

Noah nodded, as if she knew very well how stubborn the Elrics were. There was the awkward pause of two people who had only just been introduced and had abandoned by the people who’d introduced them. Neither of them quite looked at the other.

“Do you want to get cleaned up as well?” Winry asked when she could bear the hush no longer, “I mean, of course you do, after the journey. I can, err, show you where the bathroom is.”

The girl nodded again. “Thank you, though I . . . yes. That would be nice.”

There was an odd hesitancy about her, Winry decided as they got up from the table. As if she was afraid of speaking too loudly or moving too suddenly. Winry could only think to compare it to the way Sheska would sit in a corner and try very hard to look unnoticeable. But whereas Sheska did so nervously and therefore very badly, Noah seemed to naturally fade into the background. It was a weird contrast with how she looked.

Winry resolved to find out all she could about this strange, quiet girl who had shared the last few years with Ed and Al.

As they climbed the stairs, thunder rumbled in the distance.

 

* * *

 

The rain lashed the fields with enthusiasm. Al paced up and down the living room, his face drawn tight with barely suppressed impatience. The weather had definitely sided with the Rockbells in contriving to stop him taking to the road again. He was trying very hard not to lose his temper over it. _Very_ hard.

The storm descended as they ate, slicing across the hills like the walls of a prison. As visibility was cut down to a few hundred yards, his anxiety about Ed sky-rocketed. All the urgency that had driven him back to Resembool had, like a locomotive jumping tracks, transmuted into a desperate need to carry on to Central, to find the military, to find his brother. And the Rockbells wouldn’t help. They were both, with identical steely expressions, determined to stop him vanishing over the horizon again. So he stayed and paced, because if he sat still he would explode.

Al did not like feeling angry. It was a bitter, hot feeling that made the world seem huge and crushing. It was perhaps the biggest difference between him and his brother, he thought. Ed revelled in anger because it made him strong and powerful. Anger made Al feel small and helpless, carried along by waves of emotions too big for his body.

But the boiling impatience was enough to make him wish that he could just scream and be done with it.

 

* * *

 

Noah and Granny were talking quietly at the table, the old woman having cornered the stranger from another land – another _world_ – in a determined effort to find out every last detail of what had happened over the past few years. Having left them to it, Winry sat on the sofa, watching the younger Elric with concern. Half of her wanted to tell him to calm down and be reasonable. Most of the other half wanted to hug him. And a tiny bit, deep down, screamed at her to help him break out of the house and run all the way to Central, if that’s what it took to bring Ed safely home.

She blinked and frowned. Home. Strange. Whenever she pictured Ed and Al safely home after their journeys, as she did sometimes, when the idea crept up on her, she always saw them not in their old house but in hers. In the big yellow Rockbell house on the hill that everyone for miles round knew about. It seemed so right, in her head. But really, it hardly made sense. After all, they couldn’t live in the house all the time, could they? There was no room and –

And it suddenly struck her that it was no longer a daydream she was mulling over, it was a very real possibility.

She shifted at that, oddly thrilled by the idea but embarrassed and guilty about it at the same time. They didn’t know yet. They didn’t know where Ed was, what condition he was in – nothing. The thrill turned to formless worry. Not the vivid fears that were clearly affecting Al but an uncertain anxiety that made her uneasy and restless.

Damn. Why did it all have to happen just as the storm came in? At least if they had been able to get out of the house, it wouldn’t have been quite so –

The thunderous knocking made them all jump. For an instant, it drowned out the insistent rattling patter of the rain, loud enough to make the door shake.

Al, the nearest, was the first to react, stepping forwards and reaching for the handle. Pinako’s sharp call stopped him in his tracks. “No. Let Winry.”

He drew back, realising the sense of letting someone who had not been officially dead for three years answer a potential customer.

Whoever it was got impatient in the few seconds it took Winry to get up and cross the room, beating away again with renewed fervour. Given the weather, she didn’t blame them in the slightest. She waited a heartbeat for the knocking to cease and opened the door.

General Mustang stood on the porch, his overcoat done up to the collar, his peaked cap pulled down practically over his ears. His face was drawn and tired, the lines standing out far more sharply than usual. He blinked when he saw who had answered, his single eye closing and opening slowly. “Ah.” He cleared his throat. “Miss Rockbell. I . . .” It looked as though he had to seriously think about what he was going to say next, as if he was fearful he would make some catastrophic blunder. “I’m afraid,” he said at last, “that I have a patient for you.”

With that, he stepped back. The bulky, slightly comical figure of Lieutenant Breda appeared out of the rain behind him. And there, cradled in his arms, wrapped in a tight cocoon of blankets, eyes blinking dazedly out from beneath a rain-hood several sizes too big, skin glistening and pale, and looking small and frail next to the rotund soldier – there was Edward Elric.

Breda barrelled inside, unceremoniously buffeting Winry aside and stamping into the middle of the room.

“Ed!” The hoarse cry broke from Al’s lips as Pinako shot to her feet, Noah rising slowly behind her. The General stepped over the threshold with a grimace, taking off his sodden hat and tucking it under his arm. Hawkeye followed him in, brushing water from her fringe with distaste. Behind her came one of the station porters, wringing his hands. They all converged on Breda and his cargo, everyone speaking at once until the room was filled with an incomprehensible babble of voices.

Winry closed the door on automatic. Her head felt as if it were miles above where it should have been. Ed and Al were home. Both of them, right there in her house, as they should have been five years ago. It was wonderful. It couldn’t be real. She didn’t want to move, afraid that it would break the spell. Al was grinning like a lunatic as he helped pull back some of the covers around his brother, disgorging a waterfall of golden hair. Breda was complaining that Ed weighed so much. He turned as he adjusted his burden and Winry caught a flash of bandages.

With considerable relief, she let her medical instincts take over.

“Hey!” Her shout cut through the chatter and everyone shut up, turning to stare at her. She didn’t feel the slightest embarrassment at their attention: it was her job to be telling people what to do in this kind of situation. “Mr Breda, please take Ed through to the room on the left there and get him onto the bed. There’ll be towels on the rack. Al, I’ll need some blankets heated.”

“I can help with that,” General Mustang put in, reaching into his pocket.

“Fine. Granny will show you where they are. Everyone else . . . sit down and dry off.”

And with that, she hurried after Breda.

 

* * *

 

The soldier worked quickly, stripping off the soaking rain covers and wrapping Ed in one of the huge towels that were kept for just this situation. Luckily, the hood had kept his hair reasonably dry so he wasn’t likely to catch a chill. He seemed to still be a daze, his eyes vacant and his body limp. Between them, Winry and Breda were able to get him out of his travelling clothes (heavy military stuff that was made for warmth rather than comfort) and into the bed without any trouble.

Al came in, staggering under a pile of blankets. Winry took them one at a time and arranged them carefully so that she would be able to get to Ed’s shoulder and stump easily. This done, she rounded on the two men and chased them from the room, overriding Al’s protest on the grounds that Ed deserved his privacy as much as any other patient and that he could see him when she had finished her examination.

As soon as they were gone, she hurried back to the bedside and knelt down. Gently lifting Ed’s shoulder, she began to unwind the bandages. It was at that point that she realised she should have asked one of the soldiers what they knew about the injuries. “Dumb, dumb, dumb,” she muttered, kneading her forehead. Someone had clearly cleaned and dressed the wounds professionally, which implied that a doctor had already been treating him and that meant . . .

She swore under her breath as she uncovered what was left of the ‘port. But it didn’t look as inflamed as she would have expected. Someone had definitely treated it –

“Win . . . ry?”

Her head snapped up. Ed was staring at her with a baffled expression on his face. She smiled at him, utterly unable to help herself. “Hey,” she said softly, standing up.

He frowned and licked his lips. “This . . . _is_ real . . . right?”

Winry laughed, then realised she shouldn’t have. “Yes. Yes, Ed. It’s real. You’re back.”

He squinted up at her blearily, mouth forming words before he actually made a sound. “You’re crying,” he said at last, a note of disbelief in the accusation.

Her hand flew to her cheek. Sure enough, it was wet. She’d been wondering why her eyes were itching. “You can cry when you’re happy,” she told him, more defensively than she’d intended, “Or relieved.”

“You’re . . . relieved?” he asked dubiously.

“Of course I’m relieved!” She practically shouted it at him, amazed that he could ask the question, unreasonably furious that he had. “I thought I’d never see you again! I thought you and Al were gone forever! And – and now you’re back! Both of you! Together and Al’s still got his body and you’re not stuck in a suit of armour or anything and you’re sick and your auto-mail’s completely _wrecked_!”

“I had to!” He pressed himself back against the bed so hard that he seemed to be trying to get through to the floor. “I had to blow up the arm, it was the only thing I had left and it wasn’t me who destroyed the leg, that was Chambers and I couldn’t stop him –”

“I don’t care about the damn auto-mail!”

That _was_ a shout and an embarrassingly strident one at that. Winry caught herself just before she stamped her foot as well.

Ed flattened himself so much that he was in danger of disappearing under the pillows. “You . . . don’t?” he squeaked.

“No!” She dug her fingers into her hair, trying to get a grip on herself. “I’m . . . sorry, it’s just . . .” Biting her lip, she sat on the edge of the bed, hands on her knees.

“After you disappeared, that first time . . . Al said he’d become the best alchemist he could, that he’d learn enough to get you back. And I said I’d become the best auto-mail mechanic I could be, because I knew you’d need that as well. And we promised that we’d all be together again . . . the perfect team.” She broke off with a snort. “A kid’s promise. We were never going to be able to keep it.” Her knuckles were going white. She was digging her hands into her knees hard enough to hurt. Why was she rambling? What was _wrong_ with her? “I thought we’d broken it. I thought, when I saw you go back . . . when Al went with you . . . I thought that was it – that I’d never see you again, that I’d have to get on with my life without you two . . . and I did. For three _years_. I got on with my training and with helping Mr Dominic and . . . and now you and Al just show up again out of the blue . . .”

He was watching her with disbelief again, like he had been expecting something else entirely – a wrench to the skull probably – and had no idea how to react.

“Damn you, Ed.” She dug a knuckle into her eye, dragging away the tears. “Why do you always have to turn everything upside down?”

Under the circumstances, it was a very unfair thing to say, the calm rational part of her pointed out. The rest of her rapidly came round to this point of view as she took in the baffled helplessness written over every inch of Ed’s face. “Sorry,” she muttered quickly, feeling her cheeks reddening, “That was . . . sorry.” She forced herself to concentrate on his stump, quickly unwrapping the bandages, making a cursory inspection of the ‘port (ruined) and reaching for fresh strips of linen.

“Winry . . . ?” His voice was steadier, less defensive. All the same she did not react immediately, concentrating instead on making sure the new dressing was secure. Only when she had moved back up to his shoulder did she actually give in and look him in the face again.

Ed’s hand folded around hers before she realised that he'd managed to extract it from under the blankets. “Thanks,” he said, squeezing her hand just a little. The single word spoken, he hurriedly let go and wriggled about a little, cheeks reddening. He let out a hiss of air as Winry’s fingers caught his own before they could fully retreat.

“For what?” she asked quietly. His skin was uncomfortably warm and sweaty, she noticed in an absent, detached way.

Blush fading, he fixed her with an unnervingly solemn stare. “For making that promise. For looking after Al. For being there when I came back. For . . . everything.”

Winry wanted very much to hit him and tell him not to be such an idiot. Of course she’d looked after Al. Of course she’d been there when he came back. What had he expected her to do – abandon them both? Somehow though, she couldn’t get the words out and he was in no fit state to be beaten up again, so she just sat there in silence, his hand in hers.

The slight creak of the door opening came as a great relief.

Al poked his head cautiously into the room. “Um . . . is he . . . ?”

“It’s all right, you can come in,” Winry told him, standing up and brushing herself down, “He seems to have woken up for now. Just don’t get him too excited or anything.”

“I’m right here!” Ed groused in a weak imitation of his usual bouts of bad temper.

Al was already by his side, grinning from ear to ear. “We’re home, brother!” he enthused, looking fit to burst with joy, “We’re actually home! Isn’t that great?”

Unable to help himself, Ed grinned back. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

Deciding that she would only be playing gooseberry to the Elric’s reunion, Winry retreated to the door. She slipped through and paused, taking in the sight of two military officers being grilled by her Granny, Noah watching from the sofa like a coy hawk. It took her a second or two to notice that a figure was missing from the scene and another moment to realise that the General was standing right next to her.

He was staring into the patient room, or at least she assumed he was. The left side of his face was turned towards her, the black patch obscuring his features. As Winry looked up at him, he stirred and turned his head a jot, black eye darting almost guiltily in her direction. “Ah. Miss Rockbell.” He hesitated, as he always did in her presence, before continuing, his voice soft and precise. “Is he going to be all right?”

“Yes. He will be.” It was a shockingly unprofessional thing to say when she had barely examined the patient and hadn’t even started to think through the new ports properly. But this was _Ed_. He would be fine because he was too stubborn to be anything else – and because Winry was too stubborn to let him be anything else, even if she did say it herself.

The answer, or at least the speed and certainty with which it was delivered, seemed to reassure Mustang. She followed his gaze back to the Elrics. Al was busy describing everything that had happened to him while they were apart, gesturing animatedly with every other sentence. Ed looked willing to sit listening for hours. In all the time she had known him, Winry couldn’t remember ever seeing him look quite so content before.

“Thank you,” she murmured, so that only the General could hear her.

He looked down at her properly, eye widening a little in surprise. “For what?” he wondered, echoing her response to Ed’s equally unexpected gratitude.

“For bringing him home.”

His face twitched. Then relaxed into an easy smile. “My pleasure, Miss Rockbell,” he said, standing a little bit taller, “My pleasure.”

Ed was laughing now. He clapped his brother’s hand, wincing a little but going straight back to laughter. Al beamed and chuckled too, all the tension and impatience turned to joy and relief. They were home. They were among friends – among family. There was no one hunting them, no one trying to hurt them, no one to be saved. All was right with the world.

Outside, the clouds rolled on to the east, taking the rain with them. Washed clean by the deluge, the hills sparkled in the sudden sunlight.

It was going to be a beautiful evening.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Suffice to say, I never imagined Ed and Winry leaping into one another's arms at the end of the journey . . . though this has as much to do with not thinking Ed would make it in a fit state to do any leaping as with their respective personalities.  
> \- Not a lot else to say, other than that Ed has *issues*. And so does Mustang.  
> \- Nearly finished!


	13. The Stranger and the Stone

There was something different about the world when Edward March woke up and it took him a long time to work out what it was.

His head ached horribly. It felt as if someone had been using it as an anvil. His ears were ringing faintly and something had died in his mouth. When he tried to move, he found that his muscles had been replaced with hot wires and the cramps were bad enough to make him convulse where he lay.

Breathing hard, he managed to get his body under control, clenching his teeth until the pain had died down. As it faded, the oddness of what he was experiencing dawned slowly upon him. There was something nagging at the edge of his mind that did not make sense. He frowned, focusing on the deep yellow ceiling, trying to puzzle it out.

Two things hit him more or less simultaneously.

The first was the simple realisation that the ceiling of his bedroom was grey, not yellow and it was only very rarely lit by the flickering light of candles. The second, much more complex realisation was that it had been a very long time indeed since his thoughts had been so coherent.

His breath caught in his throat. Time stretched away from him, back into a whirl of noise and colour, of smell and sensation that seemed to have no end and no beginning. As far back as he looked, there was only a formless chaos of disjointed images and ideas, united only by an overwhelming helplessness and the yawning mouth of some great dark pit.

He screwed his eyes tight shut and tried to get a grip, his fingers catching up handfuls of sheet as his hands clenched. _Things_ bobbed up out of the darkness. Patterns. Numbers. The smell of freshly cut grass. Metal and flames. Long hair tickling his nose. A dog, licking his hands. Pens scratching on paper, chalk on blackboards, sharp chemical scents, the flickering heat of a Bunsen burner, the itch of irritated skin, scraped knuckles, bruised elbows, blackened eyes, torn skin, broken bones, ripped muscles, blood and blood and the pain, so much pain that he couldn’t scream –

The harsh shriek that came out of his mouth sounded distant and alien, as if he were hearing a wounded animal howl in the night. The sheets tore in his grasp as he lurched upright, dark silks coming apart like tissue paper. A wave of nausea overtook him and he flopped sideways, catching himself on trembling palms. The pain and the echoes of pain tore at his body and the inside of his head, leaving him a shaking and whimpering wreck. His arms finally giving way completely, he buried his face in the bed and tried to muffle screams that still did not feel like they were his own.

Consciousness came and went. Years could have passed without him knowing. He could have lived his life again and again in the space of seconds. When the hands, cool and insistent, guided him back to the middle of the bed, he had not the least strength to resist or any shred of will to do so. “Shsssh.” Fingers moved along the side of his chin, titling his head so a cloth could be pressed against his brow. He tried to open his eyes, to see who it was, but they would not obey him. “Peace,” the voice whispered in his ear, “You’re safe. You’re among friends.” It was no one he recognised but the motions and the words were familiar. They lulled him into something approaching calm and he drifted away from the pain, mind falling back into memories of contentment and love.

“Curious.” The second voice came from further away. It was lilting, almost musical and Edward opened his eyes to see who was speaking. He saw only shadows moving across the surface of translucent drapes and realised that his bed was at the centre of a curtained enclosure, cut off from the rest of the room. The figure tending him was swathed head to toe in beautifully embroidered robes, their head swallowed up by great cowl. Only their hands were visible, slender and pale against the rich fabrics.

“What is your name, stranger?” The musical voice again, drifting through the curtains. Edward squinted, trying to discern what lay beyond.

“E –” His voice caught in his throat. He choked on nothing and tried desperately to swallow.

The robed figure ducked down then lifted a cup to his lips. He drank greedily, the water as sweet as nectar in his parched mouth. “I . . . I’m . . .” he managed once the cup was taken away, voice unsteady but working, “M-my name’s Edward March.”

“Edward… _March_ ,” the voice repeated slowly, “And where are you from, Edward March?”

“Cirencester.” Edward hesitated, wondering if this was enough information. “In Gloucestershire. But I’ve been living in London for the last few . . . years . . .” Memories swelled up, places and people and pangs of loneliness and longing.

“I do not know where that is,” the questioner admitted after a long pause.

Edward’s eyes widened in surprise and he looked uncomprehendingly at the person beside him, as though they might explain this absurd lack of knowledge. “How . . . how can you not know where London is?”

For a little while no one spoke and all Edward could hear was his own heartbeat, thudding away inside his ears.

“Master.” The robed woman – he thought is must be a woman, with hands like that – addressed the curtains with a slight bow. “The marks on his body are burns and I cannot find any sign that the Serpent has touched his body.”

“You are certain?” the hidden questioner asked.

“Yes Master.”

“Curious. I was so sure that . . .”

The curtains billowed. Footsteps, soft and measured, approached the head of the bed, directly out of Edward’s line of sight. He tried to twist to see who was there but a hand caught the back of his head and forced it to stay still with a grip like iron. “There is one test. One way to be truly sure.”

And abruptly, a second hand clamped over Edward’s mouth and nose, forcing some sort of bitter pill between his lips. Before he could stop himself, he tried to inhale and then his throat was stinging as the pill seemed to melt as he swallowed it and then his stomach was on fire and then his body was numb and then –

Every muscle in his body spasmed and his mind was consumed by a perfect, blinding clarity. All at once, all the disconnected memories slotted together again. He saw his parents, his dog, London, Professor Van Hohenheim, the war, the flowers in Hyde Park, _Helen_. He felt someone else’s mind in his thoughts and fire and burning and oblivion and light and then something else, something dark and empty and cloying, something that swallowed him whole and curled up inside him and brought him back into a world of pain and paralysis. His throat, still burning, constricted painfully as he remembered himself lying unmoving, on the edge of consciousness, being prodded and pawed by doctors, by nurses, by a grey, brooding man who whispered in his ear of other worlds and the secrets of the universe. He saw hospitals and houses and streets and trains passing by as through a distorting lens, half conscious reality, half daydream. He saw a study, chalk on a blackboard, his hands meeting in a flash of light, dust and soil mutating under his touch. He saw the rain.

And then his stomach turned over at the sight of a wild reflection of himself, a face that was both his and that of a stranger, spitting and snarling with unsuppressed rage, shouting and bullying. Helpless, Edward was drawn back into a world of dark corridors and seething shadows, down and onwards into a circular chamber filled where Helen stood framed against unearthly light, a gun in her hand, blood spreading slowly across the front of her dress. She crumpled and he saw the life going out of her as the world tore itself apart around them.

Edward March screamed in rage and denial and tore from the grip of his unseen assailant. He landed on his haunches, breathing hard and raggedly. The anger surged through him as an unstoppable red tide, rising until he thought he would burst. Desperate for an outlet, a way to stop the pain before it consumed him, he lifted his arms and drove his fists into the bed with all his might.

His hands went through the mattress as if it were not there and shattered the frame. With a roar, he seized the timbers and ripped them out from under him, tearing the bed in half. Driven by an overriding impulse, he raised the whole twisted mess above his head and flung it away. It sailed through the curtains and crashed into a wall some fifteen feet away, erupting in a cloud of splinters and feathers.

“Magnificent. Truly magnificent.” Whirling, Edward finally came face to face with the owner of the musical voice. The man in the fine clothes spread his hands, the candlelight painting his pale skin in a hundred shades. He smiled as he spoke, a smile that almost but not quite reached his shining, indigo eyes. “Welcome, my friend. It seems we have much to discuss.”

 

* * *

* * *

 

**Preview: Here Comes The New Boss**

 

“And that is everything Mustang put in his report.”

“Everything?” General Grumman straightened his spectacles and smiled behind his moustaches. “Unless he has taken to writing very small in invisible ink, yes, everything.”

“And you believe it?”

Grumman shrugged. “Believe what he has written? Of course. Believe that what he has written is all there is to it? Oh my, no.”

“You mean, he’s left things out.”

“Only when he thought it was absolutely necessary, I’m sure. The names of the places he describes, for example, well it may be just me, but I can’t find them anywhere.” Chuckling, Grumann tapped the papers on his lap. “He’s really quite good at evading the little things like that.”

“So it’s broadly true but absolutely no good whatsoever as a piece of military intelligence. Hm. I suppose we’re not in any state to go to war over this in any case. Still . . .” The Prime Minister of Amestris rose from behind his desk and turned to stare out of the window, the morning sun turning him to a broad-shouldered. He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t like the idea of a Brigadier General of Mustang’s standing hording information. That way, disaster lies. I don’t suppose he could be persuaded to fill in the details of that report?”

“If you’re asking me whether you could beat them out of him, I would have to say no,” Grumann replied, “He is as stubborn as he is slippery and not someone you want to make an enemy of.”

“The man brought down Bradley, practically single-handedly,” the Prime Minister snapped, “I don’t want him as a friend, never mind an enemy. I want him at arms-length and under control, not riding off into battle like some damned crusader and keeping potentially dangerous information to himself.”

Grumman cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses again. “I doubt it will be Mustang that you have to worry about.”

With a sigh, the Prime Minster turned away from the window. “I suppose not.”

He plucked a photograph from his desk, a black-and-white print showing two young men on a country road, one tall, the other of medium height, both fair haired and well built. The shorter man’s right arm and left leg were notably absent, his weight resting on a single crutch. He was directing a determined scowl at the photographer, in sharp contrast to the calm forbearance on his brother’s face.

The Prime Minister shook his head slowly. “Dead heroes are so much easier to handle than live ones.”

“Oh, yes,” Grumman agreed pleasantly, “They could be quite inconvenient once it becomes widely known that they are still alive.”

“And we can’t stop that happening, no matter how hard we try. Damn it all, why couldn’t they have just stayed wherever it was they were? They’re national heroes – _dead_ national heroes. They were useful like that.”

“Believe me, they could be very useful like this.” Grumman reached over and took the photograph. He held it up, tapping the image of the Elrics with a gnarled finger. “I won’t deny it will be awkward explaining how they can stroll back into Central when we can have a monument commemorating their sacrifice . . . but Edward Elric is a handsome, charismatic, intelligent and above all brave young man. He uses auto-mail and he is the one State Alchemist in this country who everyone knows has done more good than harm. If that doesn’t say ‘recruiting poster’, I just don’t know what does.”

Pressing his fingertips together, the Prime Minister leant forward and frowned. “I suppose so,” he said eventually, “With careful handling, I suppose it might be a good idea.”

“It’s that or denying all knowledge. And, hmm, praying.”

The Prime Minister stood up again and clasped his hands behind his back. He turned to look out of the window again.

“I don’t consider praying to be sound governmental policy.” A small smile crept across his lips. “In which case, I suppose I am going to have to find a way of convincing Mr Elric that his country needs him again. And,” he continued, returning to his desk and laying a finger on the sheaf of papers, “I do believe this will be one of those rare instances when one of our problems will solve the other.”

Grumman smiled benevolently at him. “What an interesting thought. Oh my, yes.”

Acknowledging the General with a gracious nod, the Prime Minister picked up his phone. “Marie? Could you bring in the appointment dairy, please? I need to pencil in an urgent meeting with Brigadier General Roy Mustang . . .”

 

**Fullmetal Alchemist: The Dog Has His Day**

**Coming Soon . . .**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Coming on Monday, to be precise - stay tuned for that!  
> \- Once more, thank you to everyone who took the time to read this. I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
